


The Naming of Names

by ArgentNoelle



Series: Crossroads (Black Butler SPN 'verse) [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, Supernatural
Genre: (can you call it that if one is dead), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, BAMF Ciel Phantomhive, Background Relationships, Board Games, Brotherly Angst, Brothers, Butler Grell Sutcliff, Caring Sebastian, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Child Ciel Phantomhive, Childhood Trauma, Children's Toys, Cooking, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dancing, Demon Deals, Demons, Developing Friendships, Domestic Fluff, Early in Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Instability, Family, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Games, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Madam Red Means Well, Mysterious Grell Sutcliff, Mystery, POV Ciel Phantomhive, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Canon, Stuffed Toys, Toys, but she has some issues, parlor games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2019-08-25 08:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentNoelle/pseuds/ArgentNoelle
Summary: Ciel and Sebastian made a contract—that's the easy part. The hard part is going home.In which Ciel figures out how to be Earl Phantomhive, Sebastian becomes a butler, and Madam Red joins in for the ride.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> there's really no influence from Ray Bradbury on this story, except for the title, which was too cool and fitting not to pass up. :)

**The Naming of Names**

_“All dead cities have some kind of ghosts in them. Memories, I mean.”_ —Ray Bradbury

* * *

 

The boy now named Ciel and the demon now named Sebastian leave the hollow-mouthed cathedral burning behind them, flickering out of the empty night. Because Ciel cannot adequately explain where the Phantomhive manor is or even his family’s townhouse, they teleport again, and appear in what seems to be the back room of an inn. It’s empty.

“I know the proprietor here,” Sebastian explains, in a low voice. “He will not ask questions. It might be easier if you stay here until I have procured a room for us.”

It is not easier, Ciel wants to protest, but he is swaying on his feet where Sebastian let him down. He cannot walk on his own, and he doesn’t like the idea of anyone else seeing him in such a state—clad in nothing but a filthy shirt and short pants, bloody, dirty, ruined. He lowers himself onto a nearby seat and focuses on just breathing. The small gas-lamp on the wall casts his smeared and flickering shadow on the floor.

Somehow, he is still alive when Sebastian comes back in. The room is still a room. The boy is still Ciel.

Somehow, that is the worst part.

It is surprisingly easy to fall asleep. The bed, in the room Sebastian has rented, is warm, the sheets in it scratchier and thinner than any he had had _before_ , but that was before, and this feels like a dream, a respite that he will wake up from to more of the same horrors. Sebastian sits on the single chair, and when Ciel meets his eyes, he realizes that when they are not burning red, they are a hypnotizing dark maroon. But ordinary. Human. It makes him want to snap at the demon to stop pretending. But it is only eyes.

It is the dreaming that is hard. In the dream, he is back _there_ , he has never been rescued, never been saved.

And his brother is dead.

He wakes up screaming in a cold sweat—sure, for a moment, that it had all been real. That the rescue had never happened. The relief, when it comes, is excruciatingly sweet. It hurts. He curls his fingers into his arms so tightly they bleed, listens to the sounds around him; the relative quiet of the inn with the lingering hum of the city folded around him. The air is still and thick, an artificial warmth struggling against the winter chill.

He is here. He has been rescued, he has been saved.

And his brother is dead.

His new-borrowed nightgown presses against his skin, crisp and clean except where he has been sweating into it. The demon-butler is sitting at the chair, watching him with knowing eyes. Ciel looks back into that unfathomable gaze, pulls his covers close, and snaps irritably, “what are you doing?”

“Watching over your sleep, as you requested,” Sebastian answers. “Is there something else you require?”

I don’t know, Ciel thinks. He wants so much for all of the bad things to never have happened, but that’s an old wish, so worn and tattered that it seems like it belongs to some other boy, the boy that was not named Ciel, who had an older brother that would hold him when they both had nightmares, curled up together on the filthy floor of the cage. He wants so much, but he doesn’t know how to even imagine want anymore, except that it involves revenge, the destruction of the people that killed his parents, that caused all this to happen.

“Not at the moment,” Ciel replies, looking away from Sebastian as he feels his heartbeat slow, his sweat cool.

 _He’s here with me_ , Ciel thinks. _Nothing can hurt me now_.


	2. Chapter 2

When Ciel wakes the next morning the sun is high in the sky, streaming coldly through the one window; it has no drapes or blinds. It’s disorienting, for a moment. He has never before woken up to so much _sun_. He feels—less tired. His limbs no longer trembling beyond his control. Sebastian is still sitting in the chair, his black leather booted feet, with those odd and scandalously tall heels and a row of endless buttons up the side crossed in front of him. He must have moved at some point during the night, for there is paper out on the desk and an inkwell that has been capped.

“Good morning, my lord,” Sebastian says pleasantly.

Ciel stares at him and blinks. _So it was real_ , he thinks, again. _This is a demon._ He looks over the man more carefully. At the moment he is wearing only vest and shirtsleeves. His untidy hair, cut ragged near the front, somehow suits him; it looks studied. I wonder how long he has looked like this, Ciel thinks. Who did that man used to be, before this thing took his place?

It sends a cold chill through his bones to think of it.

Ciel slides out of bed, feeling suddenly light-headed as he does so. He is hungry. He has felt consistently hungry for so long that it is no longer a surprise, and last night, at the late hour, he had only milk to drink before bed. A change of clothes has been placed above the sheets, and he snaps at Sebastian to leave so he can get into them. Yet when Sebastian has stood up, with an incline of his head, and closed the door quietly behind him, Ciel does nothing for a long moment. They are unrecognizable. They are not his clothes. They are fairly close to his size, perhaps. They look old and used, though they have been recently washed and smell sharply of soap. He tries to remember which parts go on first. He has always had Tanaka to hand him things piece by piece and help him with tying ties. At the thought, his mind suddenly goes back to _that day_ , the butler’s worried face, warning him not to come closer. And all the blood… he thinks he can smell it, still, on the clothes. He wants his brother. But… but… he is not coming. He is not here anymore. _Ciel_ has survived. This person is the one who has survived. But his own skin looks unrecognizable to him.

He has somehow managed to get his trousers on mostly correctly, but the shirt is too much for his suddenly trembling hands. There are so many buttons and he can’t figure out where it’s supposed to line up. There is an uncomfortable mist in front of his eyes, and he blinks, breathing harshly, pressing his face into the bedsheets as his knees buckle beneath him.

“Young master?” Ciel hardly takes note of the alarm in Sebastian’s voice as he pushes open the door, but soon enough the demon his bending over him, speaking worriedly. Ciel flinches. He is too close. He tries to say this, and Sebastian must hear, for he steps back slightly, although he narrows his eyes. A moment later he sighs, reaching down to drag Ciel up to the side of the bed again, where he falls sitting on the edge. Ciel stares up in surprise.

“Can you hear me?” Sebastian is asking. He sounds as though he has said this before, and is wondering what to do if Ciel continues not to answer. But, finally, Ciel nods.

Sebastian lets out a breath. “Good. Then—” he holds out a hand, “please. Allow me.”

Ciel does not answer, and Sebastian kneels down, taking the ends of Ciel’s shirt in hand and doing up the buttons with careful, precise movements. After that he takes up the stockings. Ciel only watches him silently, and so Sebastian continues, pulling them over Ciel’s feet and deftly unrolling them over his legs. He focuses entirely on his work, hardly touching Ciel at all, and, slowly, Ciel relaxes. By the time he is entirely dressed he feels more able to think and his breathing has evened out.

“We can’t stay here,” he says at last. “I have a relative at the London Hospital who will know where my home is.”

“Then we shall go there directly,” Sebastian says.

“After breakfast,” Ciel says.

The corner of Sebastian’s mouth tilts up in something that might be amusement. “Of course.”

* * *

The smoky lower room of the inn is already full, bustling with people, and Ciel’s feet drag more and more as they descend the steps, walking right at Sebastian’s heels by the time they enter. He is ashamed to realize that he has clutched the demon’s hand with a vicelike grip, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind. There are people everywhere—too many of them. He feels exposed, stared at, on edge—when people brush past he jumps. Sebastian steers them quickly to a spot in the corner of the room and motions Ciel to a seat with its back to the wall. Ciel sits, his eyes darting around as someone comes over to serve them.

It’s too loud. All he can think of are screams.

By the time he is done eating, he can only shake his head when Sebastian offers to get a carriage. He no longer wants to go into the city, even if it means he will get to see Aunt Anne. All he wants to do is go back upstairs, to that room he had slept in, and close the door behind him. So that is what he does.

Ciel is lying on his back on top of the covers, staring at the rafters above him. Sebastian is sitting on the chair again. Neither of them speak.

But Ciel is thinking. He is thinking about what it means to have sold his soul to a crossroads demon. He is wondering why he doesn’t feel any different. If there was a mark he could see, and know it was true, he thinks he would feel much more settled in his mind. It is too easy to forget, even with Sebastian mere feet away.

“Why did you contract with me?” Ciel asks at last. He rolls over to his stomach to look at Sebastian, his head pressed against his arm as he kicks his feet up.

“Why not?” Sebastian says. He turns his head to look at Ciel, and his eyes flash red for a moment. Ciel doesn’t react, though the demon must want him to, he only stares back, waiting for an answer. “Contracting is what I do.”

“And yet,” Ciel says, “this isn’t an ordinary contract, is it.”

“No,” Sebastian says. “Not at all. It is proving very interesting so far.”

Nothing at all has happened since Ciel contracted Sebastian—barring the fact that Sebastian killed all of the cultists—except for that they went to an inn and Sebastian had to help him get dressed. Ciel wonders if Sebastian is feeling impatient. _He_ is feeling impatient. The need to gain his revenge, to kill everyone who is responsible for what happened, is like an itch that surges through him, a combination of excitement and terror. But, before that can be accomplished, there are other things that must be done.

Still, he does not really feel like doing anything that involves moving. He has no wish to go anywhere yet.

“My father told me that demons lie,” Ciel says. He kicks his legs back and forth, and stares at Sebastian, wondering what he will answer.

“Your father was correct,” Sebastian says.

“But, if you lie, how am I to trust you?” Ciel says.

“Everyone lies, my lord.” Sebastian says. “It cannot be gotten away from.”

“Yes,” Ciel says. “I know. And yet…” he looks down at the floor over his hand. “I don’t believe it will be possible to gain my revenge if I cannot trust my only ally. I will need to rely on you.”

“And you can,” Sebastian assures him.

“Can I?” Ciel asks.

Sebastian regards him with some interest. He seems to be thinking. “Would it reassure you if I could not lie to you?”

“I’m not interested in _reassurance_ ,” Ciel says. “I am interested in power.”

Sebastian smiles. “Of course,” he says. “I do actually know of a spell that can do such a thing.”

“A spell?” Ciel sits up, regarding Sebastian with sudden wariness. “How do you know it?”

“I am a witch,” Sebastian answers mildly. “I know many spells.”

“Oh.” Ciel wraps his arms around his knees and watches Sebastian from under his eyelashes. His curiosity is trying terribly to get the better of him. Finally, he decides to ask one question only.

“Were you a witch when you were human?”

Sebastian is quiet for a very long time. Ciel wonders if he is going to answer at all, but finally he says, “yes.” He is no longer looking at Ciel. He doesn’t seem put off by the question, but he looks thoughtful. Ciel doesn’t want to know anything more about the servant’s past. He hurries to continue before Sebastian might decide to speak again.

“Is that how very many people go to hell?” he asks.

“By being witches?” Sebastian looks up at him with that half-smile again. “No. There are many other ways to be bad enough for that.”

Ciel thinks of the men and women Sebastian had killed last night. He hopes they are each suffering as terribly as he had, for so long. He wishes it with a fury that surprises him, and Sebastian watches him with a knowing look.

“What is this spell?” Ciel asks at last. So Sebastian tells him about it: how to set it up, what will be needed, and the words to speak. Ciel says the words over, memorizing it for the future, until Sebastian nods, satisfied by his pronunciation.

Ciel only realizes, then, that this is the first spell he has learned. He wonders if it will be the last. His brother had known more: a collection of exorcisms, a few basic wards. Spells to drive off evil. It was necessary, for the heir of the house of Phantomhive to know.

The spell that the new heir knows will force another to never tell a lie. It is a darker kind of magic; similar to a hex, Sebastian explains. The new heir of Phantomhive does not need exorcisms and wards to drive off evil. He has already invited it in.


	3. Chapter 3

They go to the hospital to see Aunt Anne, but it is Tanaka they run into, as Ciel is wandering the halls, Sebastian behind him. Tanaka is being pushed in a chair by a doctor, in the middle of a bustling corridor. Ciel stares for a long moment, and Tanaka stares back. Is it really him? Ciel thinks. He know it is him. It is Tanaka down to every detail, but it seems so impossible that he, out of all the others, could have survived. He remembers hearing him scream, he remembers hearing the wet cut of knife through skin as everything was going dark, and he had not believed Tanaka was alive.

But he is. He is alive, and he is here in the hospital.

Tanaka smiles, and he is running into his open arms, enveloped in a hug, warm and familiar and safe, clutching desperately at him.

"I'm so, so very glad you are all right," Tanaka is saying. "I am so, so glad… young master…"

"Gramps," he whispers. His breath is shuddering oddly inside him as if he wants to cry.

That's all. For a moment, that's all, and he thinks of nothing.

Then the doctors say Tanaka needs to go back to his room, and Ciel follows, sitting beside him on the bed once he has gotten in, saying nothing at all, just curling close and holding his hand until Tanaka falls asleep and Sebastian, at last, reminds him that they are here to see his aunt.

* * *

"Hello, Aunt Anne," Ciel says. She is stepping out of the washroom when she sees them, still wearing the black dress of a doctor, though she has taken off her glasses and her tan coat, and the effect is stark and solemn. Her face goes white, the blood all draining from her face except for two spots of color high on her pale, smooth skin. She stops short, one hand braced against the doorframe, and blinks at him, her lashes fluttering spastically over her warm brown eyes, that seem so red in the light.

When she speaks, her voice is so cracked and soft that it is only a minute after she has spoken that Ciel realizes she has called out _his own_ name.

He has come here prepared for anything, or so he thought, but that makes his breath catch. For one moment he is ready to throw all his plans away, to tell her everything, to run into her arms and close his eyes and try to pretend everything will be fine. But there is something broken in her expression, something that was never there in his memories of her. He can't move.

"No," Ciel says at last, almost as quietly. "No, he is dead."

"Ciel?" Aunt Anne steps forward. She seems unsure of how to react—she is obviously shocked, even as she reaches out toward his face. Ciel looks coldly back. He is unable to smile, but he wishes he could lean forward or take her hand. He cannot. His body seems frozen, and he is sure that if he moves at all he will fall to the ground. She hesitates, withdrawing her hand, and they stand there awkwardly.

"I am so sorry," she says at last, hoarsely. "I never thought… I thought you both were… what happened?"

"Nothing of your concern," Ciel says. Aunt Anne flinches, at that, and draws back still further. Then she smiles, a pale, trembling thing, with a dark sadness in her eyes.

"Of course," she says. "Then…" she trails off. Without being able to ask him what happened, she seems at a loss for words, and Ciel is equally uncertain how to continue. As much as he does not want to speak of what has happened, he wants to say _something_ , to break this terrible, stretched silence between them.

"Who is that?" she asks at last, looking over at Sebastian. He smiles back at her, seemingly kindly, but there are too many teeth in it to be reassuring. Despite his hair, in his dark greatcoat, he looks respectable, if not well to do—until her eyes land at his feet and his strange heeled boots. Ciel flinches, watching her look. He had not thought to order Sebastian to get a new pair of boots before they visited his aunt. He is not sure what she will think of it, although if anyone would be able to overlook such a sight it would be her.

She stares for so long that Ciel starts to fidget, and casts Sebastian a pleading glance, but he is startled when at last she laughs—a short, chocked laugh, to be sure, without much humor in it, but a laugh nonetheless. "Is this the style these days?" she says.

Sebastian bows, slightly, in her direction. "I am the young lord's butler," he informs her equably.

Her eyebrows move up in shock. "Butler?"

"Yes," Ciel says strongly, before this conversation can degenerate. Right now, he would not believe it himself if someone were to tell him Sebastian was a butler. It isn't so much the style, although that certainly does not help, but there is something too arrogant and aristocratic about the way Sebastian holds himself, palpably looking down at everyone else. It is something they will have to work on.

"We need to know the way back to the manor," Ciel says.

"It burned," she answers him, almost confused. "Don't you know?"

Of course. The fire seems to rush up at her words, the crackling that filled the burning building, timbers creaking and popping, the close-pressed smell of smoke and…

"Yes," Ciel says. She is still looking at him expectantly, so he must not have hesitated for too long a time before answering. That relieves him. "The townhouse as well, then," he adds.

"I'd be happy to," she says. "But, why not stay with me? It would be no trouble."

Perhaps not. But he does not think he could bear to live so close around another person right now. He wants to hide himself away, he wants to be in a place that belongs to him alone. And—there is the lie to think of. If he stays with her, she will know. She already guessed, just by seeing him for one moment. He does not think there is anyone left alive (anyone who would tell) who knows him as well as she.

"Thank you," Ciel says, trying to inject the sound of gratitude into his voice. He is not sure if he succeeds—all his words recently have come out sounding cold and hollow whether he wills them to be or no. "But that will not be necessary."

"Oh," she says. She is surprised, plainly, and she hides it with a sudden smile and the trilling laugh that has always rung out across the floor of a party; her society side coming out as armor against the wound. "Well, that's fine," she says brightly. "I was just going home, I can have the coach drop you two off on the way, how about that?"

"Fine," Ciel says. He feels tired, already. He walks out of the hospital behind his aunt, who smiles at her colleagues as she passes them and hurries her steps increasingly quickly to get out of the building. The street in front of the long building is wide, the space open to the white-grey sky, and the trees that line their way to either side of the hospital's impressive façade are spindles, reaching their naked arms into the chill air. A carriage is waiting by the raised pavement, and the driver, a thin, timid man with mousey brown hair that reaches midway down his back opens the door to allow them into the landau.

"Thank you, Grell," Madam Red says brusquely. Ciel notices the driver's eyes—a peculiar watery green behind large round spectacles—watching him and Sebastian with ill-concealed interest. When the door is shut behind them and the coach drives off, there is nothing much to do. Madam Red, the only lady, sits in the right side of the front-facing seat, Ciel diagonal to her, Sebastian, who stepped in last, directly across, and she studies him curiously for some time.

"Where do you come from?" she asks him at last. It's just indirect enough that it does not ask what had happened to Ciel, and yet she is obviously curious, and unable to keep herself from nosing in.

"A different part of the continent, originally," he says. "It has been some time since then."

"Really?" Madam Red's eyes narrow. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Sebastian Michaelis," Sebastian answers.

"French," she murmurs.

" _Yes, that is where the name is from_ ," Sebastian replies in that language.

Madam Red leans back, her bright-painted lips pressed together in thought. " _You're a very close-lipped man, Sebastian Michaelis,_ " she answers, also in French.

Ciel looks back and forth. He can only recognize pieces of what they are saying, and though he can guess at the content, it galls him to be pushed aside in the conversation; the two adults are now staring at each other with equally calculating looks in their matching eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Ciel asks; he has never been very patient.

"Nothing at all," Madam Red replies, still staring at Sebastian, and her lips, dagger-edged, quirk. "Isn't that right?"

"Indeed, my lady," Sebastian answers.

"Well," his aunt continues in an entirely different voice, letting go of Sebastian's gaze, "I don't know where you got this man, Ciel, but he's such a looker!"

Ciel blushes furiously. Of course, this side of his aunt would choose to come out now. "Aunty," he protests, but she waves one gloved hand in his direction, pulling her coat tighter about her.

"Well, we have to make conversation about something!"

"Not that," Ciel hisses. Sebastian is following their exchange with something akin to bewilderment. He doesn't realize, Ciel thinks, what he has been doomed to. Ciel has seen, and heard, enough of his aunt's somewhat inappropriate behaviour to realize that this is only the beginning of her remarks—and more than that—toward Sebastian, if she has decided he is worth noticing in _that_ regard. He wonders how she can be so bold so soon after her husband's death; she had seemed to care so deeply for the man, smiling in his presence in a way that made her eyes sparkle; she had laughed more often in that past year, a soft laugh that made her seem so young.

His mother had wept the whole day when she found out, and it was father who told them the news. Aunt Anne had been too injured, then, to attend the funeral herself.

"It seems so terrible that she won't even be able to pay her respects," mother had said. "Maybe we ought to have a death photograph taken."

"Without her in it?" father had asked. "Doesn't that seem odd?"

"Maybe a little," mother had admitted. "But I feel like we must do something for her, and it might be comforting to have a portrait of her family. When she's well, we can set up another photo, with all of us and her… then she will have the past, and the future."

That other photograph had never happened, Ciel thinks. His aunt was due to leave the hospital the very day of their birthday. And now the Phantomhive family is gone.

"Would you prefer the weather?" Angelina responds. "I don't mind the cold, myself, but it is a terrible time at the hospital—so many of the poor die at this time of year."

"How inconvenient," Sebastian murmurs.

For a moment, his aunt looks thrown at the cavalier attitude Sebastian is displaying toward what is obviously meant to be a moment of sympathy, but in a moment she rallies. "Isn't it, though? Overcrowding is bad at the best of times—although at least in the winter smells don't travel half so far."

"Yes, indeed," Sebastian replies. "So, you are a surgeon then?"

"Ciel hasn't told you?" The flicker of interest appears again, but she passes it off quickly, managing to make her words sound idle.

"Only in general terms."

"Well yes—" Madam Red is quite happy to talk about her profession, especially as Sebastian gives the impression of being genuinely interested in her answers. It is not very many men who choose to focus on that, and something in her lingering suspicion seems to soften as they talk. By the time the ride is over, she is conversing quite familiarly, bringing Ciel into the conversation enough that he is not excluded without him having to talk about those things he does not want to. Of all the people to have met at this time, his aunt was the best choice, even if she was not the only logical one. She will pry, but she will never push. She can set almost anyone at ease. Even he…

She had always been his favorite aunt. Frances was always forthright and frequently insulting; the only times when she unbends about propriety are when she is doing some type of exercise; fencing or hunting is what she likes best, and he always thinks he must be a disappointment to her, having been born so weak. (But that is not him anymore, Ciel reminds himself. _That_ child died; that child was the disappointment; _he_ survived.) While he craves the respect of his aunt Francis, he has never doubted the love of his aunt Red, and he admires her deeply.

She has cut short the back of her hair. He misses it. It is such a small thing to miss, really. Her new style—can you call something as odd as shorn hair a style?—is provocative, just the way she is; she has always worn the front with pointed bangs, the edges drawing down, framing her face. But now the cut continues behind her neck, and when her head turns he is mesmerized by the way the ends slide so sharply past.

Still, he remembers the styles she used to wear, the buns with their braids and curls, and the few times he had seen her hair down, when she would brush the fiery strands that cascaded below her knees, heavy and soft.

It has been a month, apparently. Since then. That seems such a small time for the world to have shattered into pieces.

It is January 1886, a whole new year; and the winter is harsh.

When they step out of the carriage, Sebastian looks up at the doorway, thoughtfully, before murmuring that he will go help Mr. Sutcliff with the carriage. Ciel is surprised, and he tries to meet Sebastian's eyes with a silent question. Sebastian stares back at him impassively before he joins the other servant, and then Ciel is alone with his aunt for the first time. He feels all of a sudden terribly exposed.

It does not help that the first thing she says to him, when the two men have driven off toward the stables, is, "You know that you can trust me with anything?" She is searching his eyes as if trying to find something, and she kneels down to his height in the doorway. Ciel takes off his coat and puts it on the floor; he is too short to reach any place to hang it. He looks away.

"I know," he says. He wishes that Sebastian will come back, and be quick about it. He needs the strange man to draw attention away from him, because his aunt and her too-intelligent mind are looking at him. If his breath stopped coming to him, here, it would all be over. He tries to reassure himself that it has been almost a year since he had a serious attack, that even _there_ , it never happened at all. But still…

That is if she doesn't already know. She called his name. Did she believe the lie, or is she only playing along? There is no way to find out without revealing his own hand.

"You must be tired from working," Ciel says. "You should go home."

She stands up, taking his coat with her, and the thick folds of it hide her face as she hangs it. She hesitates for a long moment, there, in the hall, her hands clutching the fabric, before turning around at last and looking at him; that hollow look is back in her eyes. But all she says is, "do you have any food in the house?"

"I'm not sure," Ciel says.

"I can bring some, tomorrow, if you like."

"If I didn't, would that deter you?" Ciel says.

"Of course." She speaks quietly. "Ciel. I don't mean to intrude, to discomfit you. If you really don't want my presence I will leave. I just want you to know that I am available for anything that you need. Please don't hesitate to ask."

Ciel falls silent at the caring and sincerity in her voice. "Thank you," he says quietly. "I will remember that."

She leans down to hug him. He can smell the familiar scent of her perfume, and he remembers vividly that there were nice things, too, _before_ , that still exist. Tanaka, and even Aunt Anne, though she seems so lost and far away.

It is so long since he has been touched in a way that does not make him want to crawl away and die and kill and be sick, but… she hugs him, and though his arms have forgotten how to wrap around her in return, he closes her eyes, and pretends, for one moment, that everything will be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The only pictures I could find of female doctors in the 19th century showed them wearing black dresses, but I thought they might have tan coats as well, as other doctors at the time did.
> 
> (2) I'm going with Ciel having seen the manor burn down, here, as in the anime.
> 
> (3) Death photographs were a big thing in the Victorian era. You can search it on google if you don't mind being creeped out a bit. The family of the deceased would pose with them (lots of times they were children) as though they were alive.


	4. Chapter 4

It is not until his aunt leaves that Sebastian reappears, helping her into the coach before seeing her off.

"What have you been doing all this time?" Ciel asks, as they stand watching the carriage rattle down the street.

"Entertaining Mr. Sutcliff," Sebastian says, with something pained in his expression that makes Ciel wonder what _entertaining_ means in this instance. "He is both utterly uninteresting and terribly inept," he continues, when Ciel asks his opinion on the driver—who is apparently also Madam Red's new butler.

"You might have come in the house," Ciel says. "Madam Red liked you, she wouldn't have minded an informal gathering."

"So I understood," Sebastian says. "She is very unusual, your aunt."

"Yes," Ciel says.

"But, you see," Sebastian continues, "I could not enter the house."

"What do you mean?" Ciel asks.

Sebastian steps to the top-most step and points to the carvings that adorn the stone-work about the door; in-between decorative birds and vines are small, carefully-constructed sigils. "The whole house is probably warded similarly. They will keep any of my kind—as well as other creatures—out."

Ciel stares at the carvings in consternation. "Well, that's smart enough," he replies at last. "But you can't live on the doorstep."

Sebastian chuckles. "That would be a sight, wouldn't it."

"We'll have to break them," Ciel says. "Do you think a knife would do it? Or a fire-poker perhaps?" He tries to imagine the scene they will make, attacking the doorway with sharp metal instruments.

"It would; but that would also break the protection," Sebastian explains. "The simplest thing would be to invite me in."

Ciel blinks. "Well, come in then," he says at last.

"It's not quite _that_ simple," Sebastian explains.

"Oh," Ciel says, flushing. He crosses his arms. "So… _how_ do I invite you in," he corrects himself.

"You need to activate the sigils first… preferably from inside," Sebastian directs, as Ciel steps over the threshold and stands facing Sebastian from the other side. He can't help feeling faintly ridiculous as he does so. While he believes in magic, he has never found it particularly interesting. But it seems that there is no getting away from it, at least not in this house.

"All right," Ciel says. He repeats the words Sebastian feeds him and watches as the whole doorway lights up with a sudden glow; all the sigils in the carvings sparkling, faintly, like candles on a Christmas tree. A soft humming seems to fill the air.

"Now, you need to tell the wards to disregard the being you are about to invite inside," Sebastian says, and Ciel repeats those words as well. The sigils fade away, seemingly dormant, and then Sebastian holds out his hand, his eyes glowing red. "Take my hand, and don't let go until I have stepped fully over the threshold," he directs.

Ciel holds his hand out, awkwardly, and Sebastian takes hold before calmly stepping inside. There is no perceptible change or anything magical that seems to occur; in the next moment they are both standing inside the front hall, and Ciel is staring at the doorway. A moment later he lets go of Sebastian's hand.

"So, it worked?" he asks.

"Yes," Sebastian says, stepping back out the doorway, and then back in, to show him. Ciel nods, watching him.

"Good," he says. A moment later a thought strikes him—"you don't suppose we'll have to do this often?" he asks. "How many buildings in the city are warded like this? That inn we stayed at wasn't."

"Many places are not," Sebastian explains. "But older buildings will most likely have such things; most government buildings also. It's funny," he says, at last. "I have not found that very many private homes tend to have wards this elaborate. The poorer superstitious will put nails about their windows, horseshoes over their doors, but apart from the magically connected, it's very few families that would even know these kinds of protections."

"Hm," Ciel says noncommittally. He thinks he knows why the Phantomhives might have had such extensive knowledge of magical phenomena, but he is in no mood to deal with that issue at the moment. All he really wants to do is eat something…

But, it turns out that Madam Red was right when she noted that their might not be food left in the townhouse. The food has been cleaned out entirely, and there are dust covers on all the downstairs furniture. Sebastian makes a pot of tea from an old tin pushed far back in one of the cupboards. There is nothing to put in it—not even sugar, so Ciel grimaces at the bitter taste of the strong black tea. But, Sebastian explains, the proper way to drink tea is for it to be very strong, with multiple tea bags to a pot. Ciel sits at the long kitchen table, and tunes out what seem to be surprisingly strong-held opinions on tea-brewing, for a demon to care about, with many digressions on where to buy the best tea. He wonders, idly, if Sebastian traded for tea in his past, or if he just enjoys drinking it.

Then they explore upstairs. The rooms smell musty and unused, with that odd, dead quiet that unlived-in places always seem to have.

"There is enough wood to keep us for some time, in the back," Sebastian explains. "I can start a fire in whatever rooms you'd like."

So Ciel shows him the room where he would always stay, and Sebastian goes off to get the wood.

His brother's room is across the way.

Ciel (but that is not his name, no matter how he tries to convince himself) stares at the doorway for a long time. It is closed. He clutches tightly to the blue Phantomhive ring on his thumb, now clean and shining, and closes his eyes as he sits in the doorway of his own room. He sits there for a very long time, and when he opens his eyes again to the sound of Sebastian's footsteps on the stair, the shadows have lengthened over the wood panels, crept under the rug. The door to his brother's room has swung open a crack, perhaps disturbed by some rush of air in the house, the unaccustomed movement in what had been left alone.

"Sir?" Sebastian says. "Is there something wrong?" His voice gives every impression that the question is nothing more than a courtesy. If anything, he seems slightly put-out, as if wondering what he will have to deal with _now_.

"I changed my mind," Ciel says. "I'll be staying in the room across the hall. This one…" he stands up, and looks inside at all his familiar, _comforting_ , things. They belong to a dead boy now. "I don't need it."

He closes the door behind him.

"Very well," Sebastian answers, proceeding into his brother's room and kneeling before the hearth to light a fire in the grate. Ciel trails unwillingly behind him, looking at the bed that is almost like his own, the window with a slightly different view, his brother's books and the spaces where his brother's toys had been. Ciel had recently fancied himself too old for such childish things as toys. He had persuaded their parents and his brother that he didn't understand the appeal of clockwork trinkets and stuffed animals.

 _Does that mean I must leave those behind too?_ Ciel (he is Ciel now, he must remember that) wonders. The thought feels ashen and wrong.

The fire that starts burns merrily enough, but it doesn't seem to help the sudden coldness that has descended on Ciel's shoulders.

He ought to change clothes, Ciel decides, out of these dubious borrowed ones; and on that further thought, he needs a pair of mourning clothes made. Nina Hopkins has their measurements. He tells this to Sebastian as the butler finds an outfit from the wardrobe and brushes it out.

"You are young enough that such clothes would not be expected," Sebastian points out, and Ciel frowns.

"I understand that," he says.

Sebastian watches him carefully for a moment, and then inclines his head. "As you wish," he replies.

The butler carefully un-does first his tie, then the buttons on his shirt and trousers, and replaces those old fabrics with the finer ones of the house of Phantomhive.

They had been almost the same size. He had never gotten quite as much time running and playing as Ciel had, and his sickness as a child made him slightly smaller, but they were close enough that it took a keen eye to tell them apart, and they could easily wear each other's clothes. It surprises him to find the sleeves so wide around his wrist, and the trousers to need that much tightening. It hits him, suddenly, how much he has changed since before; and the still-healing brand upon his back aches with a sudden pain.

Sebastian's hand lingers, for a moment, on that spot, as though he realizes. But he says nothing.

Sometime before evening, the two leave the house. The first visit is necessarily to the bank, to announce himself as the not-dead heir of Phantomhive, the second visit to a restaurant, in lieu of anything to make in the townhouse and scant time to get it.

It's almost nine when they return, already dark, and Ciel is tired; but the city is still wide awake. Their own hired carriage rattles off and Sebastian is at the door with the keys that his aunt had given him, the voices from the next house over raised as a couple tries to decide if they had everything they need; a driver is waiting at the steps, taking bored notice of the proceedings.

Suddenly the woman's voice cuts through the darkness. "Dear, look—at the Phantomhive house. Is someone living there again?"

"Hurry up, Sebastian," Ciel says, quickly glancing away from the couple, who have started staring frankly in his direction.

"You couldn't think to avoid such notice forever, could you?" Sebastian replies, keys held loosely in hand, while he most pointedly does not open the door.

"No, but I'd been hoping for more than _one day_ ," Ciel snaps. "Oh, give it here!" He grabs for the keys and begins to fumble it into the lock, to Sebastian's apparent amusement. The vulturous couple have already made it over, calling out polite greetings, and Ciel, cursing at the key that doesn't seem to know how to turn, meets Sebastian's pointed look and rotates to face them. His parents raised him with manners, but he is _this close_ to shouting, and if the door was open he would walk inside and shut it behind him, courtesy be damned.

He returns their greetings by rote, and says that he is quite tired; children ought to be in bed by now, you know…

The woman murmurs agreement, but her husband, looking at Ciel with a peculiarly unnerving stare in his watery grey eyes, says, "You're one of the Phantomhive boys, aren't you. It was the talk that you were all dead."

The Phantomhives know the Blackburn family, at least nominally. Ciel has seen the couple rarely, but he has always had a sharp eye for faces. Mr. Blackburn is a heavy-set man, still too fit to be called portly, and there is something in his jowled face that suggests he was attractive in his youth. His wife is slightly younger—though they are both a few years older than his own parents; just old enough to believe their best days might fast be falling behind. He thinks he can recall them having a son; doted on by both parents, never having managed to get any other children. The wife has a good figure and her skin is free of wrinkles, but she has thin lips and a pinched look about her, something worried and fretful, that brings to his mind a clear picture of someone terribly unhappy, and not admitting it. There is no way the Blackburns haven't heard about the tragedy; perhaps they were even at the funeral. Ciel is very suddenly aware of his ordinary clothes—it seems both uncouth and unlucky to be caught without the protection of mourning. Tomorrow, he vows. Tomorrow he will arrange it, and then he will wear black, and troublesome people who should already know better might think twice about accosting him.

"Yes, I'm sure there are many rumors," Ciel replies noncommittally. He holds out a hand, staring straight into the man's eyes, and forces him to shake it. Mr. Blackburn does so in just the way the bounds of politeness dictate, loose and without hardly moving Ciel's hand, but the touch of someone else's skin on his own strikes him still with sudden nausea. He will not be treated as a child, though, and he will not be gossiped after. First impressions must always be managed.

"Ciel Phantomhive," he says, his voice as steady and cold as ever.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" Mrs. Blackburn says. "I'm sure this must be a trying time, with many arrangements to make. If you need us to lend you a maid or footman for a fortnight or so we would be happy to work something out."

"Thank you," Ciel says, drily. And have them spy into the bargain, he thinks. Not likely. "But I'm sure I'll do fine." He notices that her husband seems relived at his refusal; his wife's spontaneous offer seems to have put an even stiffer, more guarded air into his bearing. "My butler is quite capable."

For the first time, the couple looks behind him at Sebastian, who stares back placidly. Something in that look makes them cough and take a step backward, giving Ciel more space. Their reaction gives Ciel a grim sort of amusement. They are right to be wary.

"Sebastian, this is Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Mary Blackburn."

They murmur their hellos, and it is only then that Ciel realizes he has put the two in the incredibly awkward position of not having been given a last name by which to properly address the butler by. But the couple looks more and more disinclined to stick around, and whatever awkwardness has so far ensued, they are feeling it as much as he, and with far more obviousness. If he makes a correction now, he will reveal the blunder as what it is. Better to leave them guessing. Consideration for Sebastian's own feelings on the matter does not even register, and Sebastian does not offer the full name he has assumed, only continues to smile politely at his unwanted intruders until they stammer their excuses and go back to their waiting carriage.

Sebastian turns the key easily, and Ciel huffs in annoyance. He turns to look back at the carriage as the Blackburns drive off, and is going inside when he notices, behind the lace curtains on the ground floor, a face peering out at him; a child his own age. _And that must be their son,_ Ciel thinks, staring back at the boy, his features still almost hidden behind the curtains, before at last the boy drops the fabric back down. He does not seem to move away from the window, and Ciel has the peculiar feeling that the boy continues to watch him, from behind stylized white florets, until he enters the house and shuts the door behind him.

"What was that about?" he demands of Sebastian, as soon as they are inside. "I told you quite clearly to open the door, but you seemed bent on letting those _people_ pester me."

"It won't do you harm to socialize," Sebastian says. "And I was curious to see what you'd do."

Ciel fumes. "I understand your _curiosity_ ," he says, "but disregarding me in such a way is unacceptable behavior. And as for socialization—I will not have to do that for some time. I am in _mourning_. I won't be expected to attend any invitation for at least three months, and I intend to take advantage. In the meanwhile—" here he takes a breath, "right now, neither of us would stand up to scrutiny. …Earl and butler," he says, with an odd twist in his voice as he realizes the irony, "we're both fake. We have to become the real thing as soon as possible. Think up some sort of curriculum for me to start tomorrow, get rid of those horrid shoes, and draw me a bath. I am going to bed."


	5. Chapter 5

Ciel seems to have forgotten how to dream anything but this: the dirty, freezing cage, pressed against the sides and leaning into his brother's arms, speaking in whispers when no one is in the room and falling silent and still when any of _them_ come in. It's a prey instinct, just be very, very quiet and don't move. Perhaps they won't notice us then. We will get out of here, his brother promises, and _we will get out of here_ , he thinks, he believes, because his big brother had said so and he has nothing else to believe in anymore. But that is not when the nightmare starts.

The nightmare starts when they drag open the bars, oiled so that they move almost soundlessly, and reach their hands in. All the thrashing in the world only makes them chuckle. All the screaming only makes them sigh, and if you are very, very uncooperative, perhaps one of them will get angry and hit you. But they never put you back.

They are never taken at the same time. It is hard for the boy to say which is worse; those times when they take him, and beat him, and touch him, and make him hurt, or the times when they take Ciel, and he has to wait by the bars, wondering if this time his brother won't come back.

No. That's easy. The times when they take him are the worst. This is what the boy learns, during that month. The first time they take Ciel and the feeling rises up, the boy doesn't recognize it. It feels filthy and terrible, but he enjoys it. _Relief_. It wasn't me.

That is the worst part.

Ciel still tries to protect him. Ciel probably does not feel _relief_ when he is taken instead. But he doesn't ask. He is afraid to know the answer.

They talk less, later. Their voices have gone dry and hoarse with screaming, and there is nothing to talk about anymore. Sometimes Ciel will say _when we get out of here_ and the boy will say _yes_ but what he is thinking is _when they all die and hurt like they hurt us_. Sometimes Ciel will still whisper a cracked prayer under his breath, but the boy has stopped joining in. Ciel watches him as though he doesn't understand what has happened to them, why they seem so far apart even as they cling to each other like they are trying to merge into one body. This is the real cruelty.

The hands reach in again. They could have taken either of them. But the boy shrinks back, scrambling to get away. They take Ciel out this time.

But this time is different. They have been talking about it for a long time, now. The preparation. The sacrifice. The culmination of their twisted worship. There are no other children left, this time. This time they are taking him to the altar. They are holding up the knife.

The boy had known this, when he scrambled to get away, when he cowered like an animal at the back of the cage. But he had done nothing. And for a moment, all he had felt was _relief_ that they were not taking him. Ciel watches him as the hands drag him away, and suddenly, the boy realizes that _this time_ , he is not going to come back. This time, it would be better if they had taken him. This time, his brother is going to die.

He screams. He reaches, and reaches for his brother, but the cage has swung shut and Ciel is being dragged away. He can't look anywhere else. He can't stop screaming, and the long-handled knife plunges down. _No_. What's happening. Stop. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. _KILL THEM_

The boy has forgotten how to dream anything but this, and when he wakes up screaming, his brother is still dead. A storm has started, outside; the rain is coming down so thickly it sounds like it is trying to destroy the windows; it is a waterfall, a torrent. Lightning flashes through the darkness, and the thunder that follows is so cracking and loud it seems to shake the house. A slew of old and new fears seem to battle in his mind, _the nightmare_ and the sound of the storm outside. He wants his parents. But they are gone.

He pulls the covers around him and sits huddled and still, closing his eyes. He just wants it all to go away. He just wants to sleep.

The light of the candelabra flickers by the door, and Sebastian is peering in, his eyes red in the gloom. "Young master," he says. "My apologies. I left the room to make sure the windows were securely shut."

Ciel has not asked him to stay with him tonight, but the demon must remember what he had said the night before, that first night when they had only one room in an inn. _Stay with me_. A child's foolish plea. But he had. He places the candle on the nightstand and sits beside him, while outside the thunder hurls itself against the fragile walls.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, Sebastian has created lessons on history, and music, and art. It has grown colder, sometime in the night, and the rain is now snow that still floats lazily past the windows; the sun, pale and uncertain, filters its way through the glass. Ciel is tired, and it takes a particular concentration to make his limbs move where he wants them without them trembling or jerking tiredly. His brain feels fogged and slow. But he concentrates on one thing at a time. They go out for breakfast beforehand, and by the time it is noon and the lunch hour has rolled around Madam Red is ringing at the front door. The streets are covered with an unappealing grey slush, all that remains of the morning's snow, and her carriage is filled with bags of food. Ciel sends Sebastian off at once to order clothes made, do something about his boots, and gather the ingredients for that spell Sebastian told him about, and so the butler leaves and his aunt bustles in, her own butler staggering behind her with his arms piled high with bags; it takes three trips to empty the entire carriage.

"I wanted to make sure you had everything you might need," Madam Red explains. She has gathered bags of flour, oats, and meal, and a barrel of apples and smoked meats and salted preserves and cans of fruit and vegetables, twists of onions and garlic, sacks of potatoes. Ciel stands in the hall as it rapidly fills with food, his eyes wide. It seems like _so much_.

Ciel follows the two into the kitchen as his aunt takes charge, opening the cabinets to air them out, boiling a pot of water on the stove and throwing a pile of rags onto the wide wooden table. Everything must be cleaned, it seems. Soon, soap bubbles are floating through the air, rags are being dipped, and Sutcliff is on his knees trying to reach into the back of the cabinets with wet rags, while aunt Angelina commandeers the mop.

"Now Ciel," his aunt says, as she holds back her hair with a makeshift headband of one of the rags, "if you want to help you can decide where you'd like us to put everything. Much of the food can go in the root cellar, but you'll want some things near at hand," she says. "And have you set up for the milkman to come yet?"

"No, not yet," Ciel says. He feels somewhat dazed by the speed of his aunt's movements, and he blinks at her from the doorway. She looks over at him and smiles kindly.

"You don't have to stay here out of courtesy if you'd rather go off and do something else," she says, "though your company is always appreciated."

Ciel nods a bit stiffly and makes his escape, but after he has left the bustling kitchen the unnatural silence of the rest of the house descends on his shoulders. The rooms that he and his brother had liked to play in are empty without anyone to play with, and the places his mother and father had lived are equally so. There are little hints of them throughout every room—certain vases his mother had bought, his father's pens in the drawers. He ends up wandering to the door of his own room, which is closed, and so he turns to his brother's room (his room, now). It seems hardly warmer than the rest of the house, though it had a fire in it last night. Ice is forming on the windowsill, a clear pattern of frost.

He stands in the middle of the floor and looks around, but there is nothing there. He leaves. In the old nursery where they had stayed when they were young, a rocking-horse stands silent in the corner; its sad brown-bead eyes regard him. He can still remember their games of make-believe, and how the uncarpeted section of the floor had always been a sea, he can imagine that their dog, Sebastian, is sitting on his paws just beyond the bed. It makes him feel angry and childish to stand there, so he steps out, and closes the door firmly.

He ends up at his own room again. When he creaks open the door, everything in it is waiting for him. His favorite quilt, his toys and games, his stuffed animals that seem to perk up when they see him. _Don't be silly,_ Ciel thinks. _They aren't really real_. But somehow, seeing them makes him feel better nonetheless. Ciel creeps inside, letting the door almost shut behind him, feeling as though he is going somewhere he shouldn't, and spreads his pile of board games across the floor.

 _The Mansion of Happiness_ is beside him. Ciel stares at it for a long time before pulling the cardboard box open. Inside, the board game unfolds, its colors bright. The numbered spaces, some pale green, others with gaily painted pictures, spiral their way toward the center. It begins at _one_ and goes to _sixty-seven_ —the mansion of happiness, heaven itself—where women in colorful dresses sit under the shade of summer trees. The words read:

_Be virtuous then and forward press  
to gain the seat of happiness_

He looks at the women in the garden, trying to imagine that he sees his mother and father somewhere in the background; Ciel must be there too. It's easy enough to play a game like this by oneself, but Ciel does not have an urge to play anymore. He has already lost this game, he thinks. He nudges a piece (the one he and Ciel always used to fight over) from its starting square and watches it fall off the board, onto the floor.

There are other board games he might enjoy better, or cards, or anything else, but he finds himself unable to look away from this game. He lies down on his stomach and peels a little of the printed paper from the edge of the board, fretfully, before pressing it back down. The glue has been loosened, and the tabbed edge doesn't sit flat.

"Ciel?" his aunt says. Ciel doesn't realize, at first, that she is talking to him. When he remembers, he scrambles to his feet, his face growing hot. He doesn't know how he will be able to explain this—he doesn't know what he should say—

"We've put all the food away," his aunt says, looking at him.

"Oh," Ciel says.

She steps inside.

"Do you need help cleaning up?" she asks.

Ciel says nothing, and Angelina gathers her skirts to the side with one hand and kneels on the floor to reach the board games, carefully taking each piece and putting it away. Ciel folds up the board and hands it to her, and she puts it back in the box before covering it. In a few minutes they have gathered everything together and she stands up to stack them on the shelves.

"It's hard, to miss someone so much," she says at last.

"He wanted to start a toy company," Ciel says. He has some strange idea that he is offering an excuse for why he is apparently in his brother's rooms, playing with a dead child's things, and it slips its way out of his mouth even though Madam Red doesn't seem suspicious at all.

"Yes," his aunt says, with a drawn smile. "Yes, he told me. I thought it was a wonderful idea."

It strikes Ciel suddenly that while he is grieving for his brother, _she_ is grieving for _him_.

He doesn't exist anymore.

"Maybe…" Ciel says at last, "I was thinking of doing the same. In his memory."

His aunt's breath catches. When he looks at her, her eyes are suspiciously bright, and her voice is soft. "Give it time," she says. "If it seems like a good idea, it will stay with you. There's no need to hurry."

 _I'm not doing it in his memory,_ Ciel thinks. _He never liked the idea of me starting a company of my own._ It is merely a good, believable excuse to pursue his own inclinations. It feels like another betrayal, but there is no way for them to stay together anymore. He is the only one left, he thinks, and brushes the ring on his thumb unconsciously. He is Ciel Phantomhive, and he might as well make the best of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mansion of Happiness was a real game, and there are pictures of it online if you search.


	7. Chapter 7

Madam Red’s butler, she announces, does not know how to cook; so the trouble falls to Sebastian. Sebastian, it is soon learned, does not know how to cook either. So before dinner can be made, the three adults hunt about for a cookbook and argue over what recipes to make, while Ciel is given tea with sugar—there is still no milk to be had. Sutcliff doesn’t say much, but he apparently has no opinions on food at all, while Sebastian’s taste runs to the exotic—heavy things, with creams and spices, which Madam Red declares firmly to be absolutely unfit for a child, especially one who is in need of good, healthy nutrition. (She has noticed that he has gotten thinner in the past month, and her curiosity is palpable.)

They settle on a soup and apple fritters, and with the lack of precise ingredients, they make do with what they have. Sebastian takes measurements very seriously, while Madam Red (who knows, by her own admission, nothing more about cooking than any of the others) urges him to add a pinch of this and a sprig of that. In the end, the soup has boiled potatoes and some kind of stock, smoked meat and carrots, and it smells much nicer than Ciel had feared, when it began. Sutcliff stands across from him at the working table and grates a pile of apples with uncomfortable speed, until Madam Red looks over from her and Sebastian’s alchemy and exclaims, in a very high tone, that, “we don’t need more than two full pots! Damn it—I’m sorry, excuse my language,” as though they are women with delicate ears. Sebastian raises one eyebrow in her direction, but no one seems to mind, and Ciel notices that her butler does not seem surprised at his aunt’s choice words. She peers down at the lumped mixture dubiously. It has already gone brown, and on further consideration, no one can remember whose idea it was that they ought to _grate_ the apples.

It mixes with the dough well enough, though, and while Sebastian works out how to use the oven Madam Red pours the remaining juice from the bottom of the pots into a cup for Ciel to drink. It is sweet and cold, and Ciel takes small sips to make it last.

The afternoon is getting away from them when everything is finally cooked, and Madam Red announces that they must all get ready for dinner. Sebastian starts to clean the kitchen and the lady whisks Ciel and her butler away. Then they must freshen up. At last, Sebastian announces that the table is set; Ciel and Madam Red sit, she escorted into the room by Sutcliff before he retires, and they enjoy their dinner.

Then it is time for dessert. The table cloth is taken up and folded, and Sebastian brings out the apple fritters, which are plated adequately but seem suspiciously black around the edges. Ciel pokes at his, and opens his mouth to tell Sebastian off (and, if he is very frank, to raise his voice and perhaps throw something) but his aunt tells him archly that if he has an issue with the food, he should train his butler more thoroughly, and a gentleman does not turn down the only food in the house. So Ciel eats, and finds that the apples are still quite good and sweet, and the crust being burnt hardly makes that much of a difference.

He goes to bed early that night, tucked in by his aunt before she leaves; and though he still dreams the same nightmare, he does not wake until morning.

* * *

The first thing that Ciel remembers when he wakes is that Sebastian has gotten what they need for the spell that will make Ciel be sure the demon doesn’t lie to him. The thought makes his stomach twist and his fingers tingle in a confusing mixture of excitement and unease; he does not think he can wait a single moment before they start. Just to be perverse, it seems, Sebastian has an entire list of what has to be done before that, from the moment Ciel wakes up. The butler doesn’t mangle up breakfast too terribly, but Ciel makes very clear the type of standards he has for quality (and his aunt isn’t here, so she will never know about the thrown dish. Ciel refuses to feel guilty about that.)

Literature is the only class of the day, but after that Sebastian presents him with an exhaustive list he has created of governesses who might teach him every subject, once Sebastian has imparted the basics to his own satisfaction, and which it is imperative that he look over. Anyone who had known them before, or taught him and Ciel, he rejects—it is too easy to break his cover without bringing in more people who could suspect, and would be too knowledgeable about the differences in the twins’ work.

“Your shopping trip, Sebastian,” he says at last, pushing aside the list on that desk that still belongs more to his predecessor than Ciel. The place and the long delays have him irritated beyond measure, and he casts Sebastian a glare that the butler meets with an unconcerned smile. “How did it go.”

“I managed to find some suitable shoes, as you requested,” Sebastian begins.

“I can see that,” Ciel mutters. They are surprisingly nondescript, though they shine black, and without his indecent heels the demon is slightly less toweringly above him.

“I also found Miss Hopkins, and she says she will be able to get you a full mourning suit within the week. She was very grieved to hear of the news,” Sebastian continues.

“Was she?” Ciel replies, noncommittally. This doesn’t precisely sound like the Nina Hopkins he remembers, but he supposes anyone might care about such a prominent tragedy… on the other hand, there is something too self-satisfied in Sebastian’s tone, and it makes Ciel wary.

“Yes,” Sebastian says. “She made it quite clear that there is absolutely nothing innovative that can be done with such dour colors and awful fabrics. I’m afraid the death of your family is a personal offence to the woman.”

For a moment, Ciel catches his breath to hear of _that_ spoken of so cavalierly, but Sebastian’s move is obvious, and the slightly hungry gleam in his eye is waiting for his reply. “Hmph,” Ciel says, at last. “I’m sure she will think of something. But the other trip—those things, have you got them?”

“Ah yes,” Sebastian says, as though they haven’t been tiptoeing around this issue the whole morning. “The spell ingredients. I found everything that was needed. Would you like to see them?”

“Yes,” Ciel says. “I mean to do this now. Get everything in order. Is there someplace better for performing it?”

“Here will do as well as anywhere,” Sebastian says. So he leaves, and comes back with a bag full of strange things: dried herbs with odd and musty smells, the small bones of an animal, a silver bowl, candles, and chalk. Ciel runs through the list in his head as he looks over each, almost afraid to touch them, though he knows they are all ordinary items, until the magic is applied. He puts everything in the bowl while Sebastian makes the proper lines with chalk, explaining why they need to be drawn just so.

“This isn’t play,” Sebastian says chastisingly, as Ciel begins to fidget. “Intent, words, and ingredients will only go so far. The setting up is also important; some choices will make your spell more powerful, some will make it less—see, if I change the angle of this line, here, it would still work, but it would be less effective. Can you explain why?”

He has that strict teacherly look on, and though he hasn’t put on those spectacles he likes so much to play the part, Ciel can almost picture them. “The shape is still the same,” he says at last, “but it’s less symmetrical, and the direction it faces in is less clear. It won’t gather the energy as well.”

“Exactly,” Sebastian says, approvingly. “And the candles, for a similar reason. Now, you remember the words?”

Ciel nods. He takes a deep breath before speaking, and speaks slowly enough that he doesn’t stumble on any of the words. When he is finished, he runs his fingers counter-clockwise on the inside rim of the bowl, and when he pulls them away, they are covered with the thick grey dust that has formed around what they put in. He holds his hand in front of him, hesitating, before he leans forward, brushing aside the bowl—the spell is over now, that no longer matters—to touch the dust to the surface of Sebastian’s lips. Where his dust-covered fingers connect with Sebastian’s skin, they burn cold, as though dipped into a bucket with ice-water, and Ciel gasps. Sebastian hardly reacts, though Ciel notices how still he is sitting, and the careful nature of his breath, warm against his still-chilled hands. Sebastian’s lips part. Ciel is very still of a sudden, watching. Sebastian breathes out, with an odd look in his eyes that seems at once pained and calm, and Ciel’s fingers tremble against his skin as he does.

The cold leeches away by increments, burned away by the warmth of Sebastian’s mouth. Ciel feels a tingle as though his fingers are waking up from numbness, and he is suddenly aware of the softness against them. It seems odd that Sebastian should feel so human under his touch, that there would not be something unsettling about it. But for the longest moment, all he feels is curiosity.

He realizes that all at once that he has not moving back and that he ought to have; his fingers are still on Sebastian’s lips and Sebastian is watching him frankly. Ciel jerks his hand back and scrambles backward on his heels, overturning the bowl. He feels a sudden urge to make sure the spell has worked as it should have. It seems like a necessary test; and it distracts him from the confusion that is suddenly sitting in his stomach and surging behind his mouth.

And Sebastian’s eyes, watching him from underneath his long, dark eyelashes, are so suddenly inhuman, though they are not glowing at all.

“Tell me a lie,” Ciel says.

Sebastian smiles. He pauses over his words as though picking each one, before he speaks. “My name is Ciel Phantomhive,” he says at last, pleasantly.

At least that is what he seems to say. By the time he is saying _Ciel_ his words are choked and twisted, and by the time he gasps out the end of _Phantomhive_ the word can hardly be made out, past the blisters along his lips and the blood that pours in a gushing torrent down his chin, out from the cracks along his tongue. Ciel stares, horrified, and the blackened, cyst-ridden lump of flesh that had been Sebastian’s tongue, as the demon pokes it out, experimentally, and licks at the blood around his mouth. It smears, a bloody mess of charcoal and pus, and Ciel brings his hands to his mouth as he chokes back the overpowering urge to gag.

Sebastian’s eyes glow red. He is still looking at Ciel as he smiles further. The cracked flesh around his mouth splits still more at the motion, and Ciel puts his head into his knees and wraps his arms around himself, squeezing his eyes shut. After a moment, he can hear Sebastian getting up and quietly cleaning everything from the room—spilled bowl and candles, whose flames sputter out with a hiss, the chalk marks cleaned with a wet rag. When Ciel opens his eyes at last that is what Sebastian is doing—everything else in a neat pile beside the door, the butler is on his knees in his fine suit, scrubbing away the white lines from around where Ciel sits, and as he moves closer Ciel moves closer to the wall so he can reach the last section.

The blood is still all over his face, a visceral sight of unimaginable disfigurement, glistening and pooling over his skin. Sebastian doesn’t seem to notice or care, working through the menial chore with all appearance of contentment.


	8. Chapter 8

The lethargic anxiety that has been crawling and hanging itself over him all day doesn’t let up all through the rest of the interestingly silent lessons; it doesn’t even fade when, quite abruptly, at about two o’clock, Sebastian announces that he has completely recovered and there is no need for Ciel to continue behaving so morosely.

“I thought you wanted to be sure about the efficacy of the spell you performed?” Sebastian asks. “Did it not meet with your expectations?”

Ciel is hardly able to muster the burning glare he sends Sebastian’s way from where he has flopped bonelessly onto one of the sofas in the drawing room and refused to get up. “It did not meet with my expectations at all,” he says at last, “because you gave me no idea what to expect.”

“I told you it was dark magic,” Sebastian replies, mildly.

“Yes,” Ciel says. But Sebastian had enjoyed shocking him, and he still does not seem at all sorry about it. Ciel sits up and crosses his legs, watching his butler carefully. He has cleaned up very well. In the hours since the event occurred, his skin has slowly healed, and he had disappeared to wash away the blood almost immediately. There is nothing left to show for it, there has been no real harm done at all. Ciel doesn’t know why he isn’t feeling more angry. Instead, all he feels is horrible; jumpy and tired and sad. He cannot bring himself to feel any energy, and that disturbs him even more. _Out of sorts_ , that was it. No one could expect to behave normally after such a nasty prank.

“If you were human,” Ciel says at last, “what would that spell have done to you?”

“Why, the very same thing,” Sebastian replies.

And a human would not have been able to heal so uncannily. Ciel has never thought particularly about witches any more than he has thought about magic, but at that moment he feels that he must hate every single one of them. _What kind of person would make up a spell like that?_

Furthermore… what kind of a person would use it?

He had. Ciel doesn’t like that idea at all.

“Does that distress you, my lord?” Sebastian asks, tilting his head in a way that is almost mocking.

Because _Ciel_ can lie, he scoffs, and says coldly, “of course not. I was just wondering.” He has made a mistake in not asking the precise effect of the spell; Sebastian had not lied to him about it, but he had mislead him just the same. He will have to be more careful in the future. Before Sebastian can continue that line of thought, Ciel says, “What do you know about running a business?”

Sebastian blinks, suddenly at a loss. “A business?” he asks.

“Yes,” Ciel says testily. “I’m sure you know what it means; selling things, making money.”

“I am quite familiar with what it means,” Sebastian replies. “What type of information are you looking for?”

“The practical kind,” Ciel says. “I want to start a toy company.”

“A toy company.” The surprised amusement in Sebastian’s voice is too condescending. “While you are finding your revenge? My, you do like to keep busy.”

“I can’t very well drop everything else until that happens, now can I?” Ciel says. “That would be the height of the ridiculous, if I do not even know how long or short my life might last.”

Sebastian is quiet for a moment. Then, “I suppose not,” he says.

Preliminary designs must be thought of first, and after that, once they can find someone to create mock-ups they can consider showing the product to potential sellers. “And after that, if you’re quite serious about this being a large enterprise, you ought to get the business insured,” Sebastian lectures. “Have you thought up a name for it yet?”

“No,” Ciel says. He is scribbling aimless designs, frustrated by his hand’s lack of ability to accurately capture the details he is visualizing in all respects. He is thinking of the toys he likes, and what makes them special; he is thinking of the toys he would wish to have, and what makes them worth having. He is thinking about all the other children who are not able to play outside but only watch out of windows while the sun shines on the garden, and all that don’t have parents to give them toys and gifts, who live in dark and loveless workhouses without a single doll to comfort them, or sweets to make a dreary day shine brighter. The ambition has sharpened in that time away, and now, when he thinks of those children, it is with the memory of that hopeless pit and the dark. Everyone needs something to hold onto, no matter how fragile.

It is a careful, hidden thought, hiding itself in the back of his mind as though afraid it might spill its way into the light. What he says out loud is talk of expenditures and rising profits, the kind of thing he had sometimes heard his father’s men speak of in important tones. And Sebastian doesn’t chide him or draw attention to the hesitation in his voice as he stumbles over half-familiar words he hardly knows the meaning of, but only puts on a serious expression and says that they might take the opportunity to start their lessons on economics; so that is what they do for the rest of the afternoon, taking only a light lunch so that they might spend as little time away from this as possible.

As dinnertime rolls around, the bell rings and his aunt strides gaily into the room, followed by her butler as per usual.

“Thank you, Michaelis,” Angelina says as Sebastian lets them into the hall. “Grell,” she continues, “see if the man needs help, all right? I’m going to spend time with my nephew.”

At that, the usually reticent butler utters a squawk of dismay, and Ciel looks over to see what can be so very shocking about his aunt’s words. It comes clear soon enough: the weedy man hasn’t been listening at all; he is gaping like a fish, looking with wide eyes down at Sebastian’s flat-heeled shoes.

“I’m sorry, is something wrong?” Sebastian asks politely.

“Your shoes!” Grell wails. “What has happened to them? Why these new ones are… predictable! Ordinary!”

“Ah,” Sebastian says, seeming unsure whether his usual dislike of the butler will, in this case, weigh out over his similar sentiment. “Well, propriety dictates…”

He is interrupted before he can continue. “Yes yes,” Sutcliff says quickly. “I understand that, but the loss to your style…”

“Cannot be helped, I’m afraid,” Sebastian answers. “It was the master’s wishes.”

Sutcliff utters a dismal sigh. “Yes,” he says, after a long, silent moment, looking down at the floor; the tips of his own shoes pointed inward, their polished brown surfaces touching each other with a kind of hesitance that seems to hold a nervous energy. He continues at last, thoughtfully, “it is strange the way one bends for such things.”

“How about chess?” Angelina is asking; if she has noticed the conversation being had on the other side of the room she is finding it more fruitful to ignore. She has already dragged out a chessboard from somewhere and is setting it up before Ciel thinks to protest.

Sutcliff has looked up and is watching them. There is something in the expression the Madam’s butler wears that is disquieting to Ciel; it seems so forward, directed toward his aunt’s unprotected back.

He sits down across from her and takes black, letting his aunt make the first move. He has played the game with her before, both he and Ciel; though with Ciel she always gravitated to running about: tag, hide-and-seek, blindman’s buff. Ciel and Elizabeth and his aunt would play such things for hours, long after he had quit; but he had never minded, because she would always find time to play the games he liked with him, and to bring him books and discuss whatever was on his mind with the utmost seriousness—a true kind of seriousness, not the pretend kind most grown-ups would put on.

Sometimes, when she was staying over at the manor, she would join his mother as she told them stories at night, and the sisters would take turns reading each page of whatever book they had chosen, seeing who could embellish most outrageously on the text, until all four of them were laughing so loudly father would peek his head in and wonder with mock-surprise whatever could be going on.

As Ciel starts to move his pawns across the squares, he is struck by his aunt’s silence.

She is watching her pieces as though they are a riddle, and Ciel glances up at her to see the odd look on her face that had so unsettled him when he had first seen her again. He still can’t place it. It seems off, almost angry, almost sad, but afraid over all. It is as though the silence is sucking her down. He feels as though she is using the pieces as though they are really in battle and not “merely passing the time”—the way she had always liked to describe chess, to Ciel’s vocal displeasure and his own amusement.

It makes his own hand falter. _Are you okay_? The thought pushes itself up his throat but becomes stuck somewhere between his mouth and the air, being swallowed in the same silence.

The seconds pass, and then the minutes. The piles of captured pieces beside Ciel grows, his aunt’s meagre in comparison, but still the anxious feeling remains. The more Ciel doesn’t speak, the more he feels like he has forgotten how. He feels, at once, like he is playing chess with a stranger, or as though she is. They have played chess before, but he is no longer the boy she used to play chess with—he no longer even has that name. And she is far, far away from him, across the void of silence that presses down with weight. It is not the right game to play, Ciel thinks. It is not a game either of them are ready to play. But he doesn’t know how to stop.


	9. Chapter 9

The building has entered the landscape of his nights; he can smell fire in his sleep. The memory is stuck, like a foil cylinder going round and round on a phonograph, endlessly repeating sound. All he can imagine is that moment of its burning, with the crooked banner hanging from the dining room ceiling, the long, endless halls, the blackened pools of blood.

It is not _that dream_ , but Ciel does not find this alternative any less disturbing.

During the day, he designs products, working feverishly on scraps of paper with pencils grinding to a stub, walking in circles while he talks endless options out with Sebastian. There is one design in particular that is capturing his attention; it is a sad, soft rabbit, with grey fur the color of the smog over the Thames on a sunlit morning. It reminds him of the softness of blankets and darkness, something comforting but melancholy. But there is something missing; its black, sharp eyes and downturned mouth seem to ask for more.

Perhaps a week into this pattern, Ciel, face wan with lack of sleep and with purpled bags under his eyes, is curling up under the full-length mirror in his brother’s room and shaking. He can hear Sebastian’s tone of annoyed concern morphing into brusque exasperation as he asks the young master to _please_ , explain what has gotten him into this fit, he seemed fine only a moment ago; would he like some milk? Would he prefer the mirror be covered? Is he feeling ill?

Ciel’s face is dry but his breath is shaking, and at last he recognizes that Sebastian is nearing the end of his patience and manages to say, “it’s… not _fixed_!”

Sebastian sits down on the floor beside him. “Young master,” he says carefully, “what isn’t fixed?”

Ciel reaches a shaking hand up to his hair, which has grown so long during _that time_ that the bangs can reach over his eyes if not brushed aside (Sebastian had cut it into something more presentable and straight around the edges, but Ciel refused to have the length shortened) and with trembling fingers, he pulls aside those strands over his ear. “That,” he says at last. It’s all he can say, before the chills and shivers overtake him again. A moment later he is angry, and he lashes out at the mirror, striking his fist against it as hard as he can. The silvered surface doesn’t bend, only stings his hand terribly, and Sebastian catches it before he can strike again. He turns on Sebastian. “Why isn’t it fixed?” he screams.

“Do you mean the pierced area?” Sebastian says.

Ciel nods his head miserably. _That_ had been where they put those tags; he had never seen the one on his own ear, only felt it, stinging and bleeding, but he had read the words and numbers on his brother’s. Those tags that had reduced them to nothing more than a piece of property to be carted around, thrown about and toyed with as no man would dare even treat an animal. He wants to pull off his own ear to get rid of it, the awful frenzy is burning a strangled scream from behind his clenched teeth.

“It is healing,” Sebastian says at last, when he is no longer screaming and is staring vacantly at the ground. “In fact, it seems quite healed to me.”

“But…” Ciel says. “I can still… see… the hole…”

“Ah,” Sebastian says, suddenly understanding. “These pierce will remain, you know; the flesh is healthy, but it remembers what has been done. It is just that very property which allows humans to wear earrings.”

Ciel sniffles. “I want it gone,” he says at last, darkly.

Sebastian pauses, before reaching his gloved hands to the Ciel’s face and turning it gently to the side. He moves slowly enough that Ciel can see his hand coming, and though he freezes at the touch, Sebastian keeps it light and looks consideringly at that spot like a professional making a decision. Ciel looks back at him, curious. Sebastian brushes the lobe of his ear and hums softly. “Well, it is in the right spot for it, if you did want to put an earring in.”

“Don’t be silly,” Ciel says, face muffled in his hands as he drops his head down.

“Young master,” Sebastian says, “right now you are in the process of creating the Earl Phantomhive aesthetic, and you must choose how to present yourself. So, which do you prefer; to have this scar that might not be noticed, or be thought to have an unusual and perhaps eccentric fashion? Even if anyone judges you for the latter, it will be because of a choice you made, not that was made upon you.”

Ciel hesitates. He looks up at himself in the mirror, Sebastian still brushing the ends of his hair away from that ear, and winces at the small yet so loathsome mark. He frowns at his reflection. “I…” he says.

Then he falls silent. What Sebastian says has an appeal, yet he can’t shake his initial reaction to dismiss it. His father had worn earrings occasionally, he recalls; it was something his mother had talked him into.

“Furthermore,” Sebastian says, with a light teasing tone, “I think you’d look quite fetching with blue.”

Ciel huffs. “You can never be serious, can you,” he says. He stands up as Sebastian does, taking the butler’s hand, and the demon resumes dressing him as though there had been no interruption—pulling thick black wool socks up to his equally dark trousers. The mourning clothes, unreflective and unornamented with anything but crape, make Ciel seem to bleed into the halls when he walks, and when he and Sebastian go out into the city, they are nothing but a mass of dark and matching fabric.

The first few designs have been sent out, and business will not wait.


	10. Chapter 10

“We ought to play a game,” Angelina announces. Afternoon tea has been pretty much demolished, with only a few scattered crumbs where the cakes had been, and Ciel reflects that the chocolate ones hadn’t been half bad. He’s had better, but Sebastian is fast improving. Said butler is picking up the dishes as his aunt speaks, while Sutcliff stands stationed behind the lounge at her shoulder. “Ciel, what do you say to lookabout?” Before he can answer, she is waving the men over. “Come on, we’ll need all of us to play. You can pick the first item,” she says to Ciel. “You are the host, after all.”

Ciel blinks. “Oh,” he says. Of course he is, technically, but it is such a novel idea that he hadn’t realized it. After all, his aunt is family. She acts as though this house is as much hers as his; and it’s not as though he is entertaining for the servants. But he picks up a small spoon and shows it so they know what to look for. When the three leave the room he looks around. Where to hide it? His gaze falls on the pot of ferns in the corner, and he walks over to dig the spoon into the dirt, half-hidden by the leaves.

It takes some minutes for Sebastian to deposit everything else in the kitchen and come back, but soon enough they are all waiting beyond the doorway. When they get into the room his aunt sits down almost immediately, and a moment later Sebastian follows suit.

“What?” Grell cries. “Where is it? Oh…” he doesn’t look particularly miffed at losing, though. Sebastian goes to retrieve the spoon while the other butler takes the handkerchief from his breast pocket. Ciel follows his aunt and Sebastian out, and almost three minutes pass before Grell calls that the item is hidden.

Ciel looks around the room. At first glance, nothing has been changed, and the handkerchief doesn’t call attention to itself. Of course it would camouflage best on white, and when he looks at the tablecloth, he can see the telltale edges of handkerchief flat under an arrangement of flowers. He sits down just as Sebastian does, and that leaves Madam Red as the next to hide an object. She takes a candle, and, as it turns out, hides it behind the lip of the music stand on the piano.

Sebastian manages to avoid being the last one out for so long that at last they persuade upon him to hide an object anyway, and he obliges, putting one of his white gloves, carefully rolled up, behind the lace curtains. That sparks a lively debate about whether that really counts as being ‘in plain sight’, Sebastian citing the fact that lace curtains have spaces in them, so it’s perfectly possible to see the glove if you really look, while Madam Red hotly denies it.

“ _You_ hid the candle where it couldn’t be seen,” Ciel says.

“What do you mean? That was the most obvious one—sorry, my lady,” Grell adds.

“There wasn’t anywhere better to put it,” Aunt Anne says. “If you had more red objects in your house, it wouldn’t have been so noticeable,” as though she hadn’t been the one to pick the candle in the first place. On the next round, Grell picks the same candle, and manages to baffle everyone with his hiding place until Ciel, who has decided to peer behind the chairs, under the table, and behind everything, notices it standing upright behind the leg of the piano. Grell has a very self-satisfied smile, at that, the uncharacteristic expression showing the tips of his white teeth, and Madam Red narrows her eyes in his direction.

“You said it couldn’t be done,” Grell explains.

“I said no such thing,” his aunt denies.

It’s more than an hour before they finally tire of the game, and Sebastian leaves for the kitchen, muttering about washing and dishes; but they merely have dinner late, and no one really minds.

“You enjoyed yourself today,” Sebastian says, that night. Ciel, pulling his down quilt up to his chin, turns his head aside.

“It was tolerable,” he says. He doesn’t like to think that it might have been more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookabout was a parlor game played in Victorian times. The rules are fairly simple. An item is picked by "it", everyone gets to see the item, then they leave the room so the item can be hidden. When everyone comes back into the room, they sit down without speaking as they notice where the item has been hidden. The last person left standing becomes the next "it."
> 
> Usually, parlor games would be played with forfeits at the end (basically an excuse to make everyone do funny, entertaining, or embarrassing things, and which in effect is another whole round of games), but in this case, they just played the one game.


	11. Chapter 11

“What’s this?” Ciel says, when Sebastian hands him the small box.

“You showed interest in the idea,” Sebastian says. Ciel looks at him doubtfully, but opens it to find two small stud earrings nestled into velvet. They are blue, two perfect star sapphires, the six-pointed shape just visible when he turns it in the light. Lessons have ended for the day and dinner has been taken away, so he is seated in the parlor, piles of foolscap cluttering up the table, covered in product sketches. A number of mock-ups have been completed, and Ciel can’t wait to pick them up this afternoon before thinking of all the things he might change.

“It matches my ring,” Ciel says softly. Somehow, Sebastian has gotten the shade to be exactly the same, and when he puts his thumb near them, it looks as though the designs have been created to go together. If it weren’t for the fact that the earrings were made with a more delicate touch, you would never notice it wasn’t meant to be a set. The sight of it staggers him, and he feels suddenly overwhelmed. He can’t look Sebastian in the eyes when he says, at last, “But the other ear… I can’t put it in.”

“The earrings came together,” Sebastian says. “If you’d like to only wear one, I’m not certain if I can return the other, but I will try…”

“No,” Ciel says. “It will look better with both.” He glances up at Sebastian, then, uncertain about what he means to say next.

“You can have the other one pierced during our outings today, if you like,” Sebastian says. “I know of a reputable place.”

Ciel holds the two sparkling gems in his palm, and puts them gently back in the box. “Yes,” he says at last. “I think… I think I should like that.”

He changes out of his mourning clothes for the outing. He doesn’t want to draw more odd attention than he has to, and he can’t help being nervous. But they set out in a cab to get the stuffed animals he has designed, and when that is done they catch another to go to the salon. The shops are bustling, despite the chill that makes Ciel’s breath fog when they get out of the carriage. Well-dressed men and women are stepping in and out, so there is an ever-present ring of small bells hung over the door; and the windows are filled with the latest fashions. Ciel stops to peer in as they pass along, Sebastian holding the bags behind him, imagining how he will set up his own shops, once his business is ready to sell. It’s suddenly so close to being a possibility, even as it will take ingenuity and persistence to make it. His dreams are waiting for him behind the polished glass, sparkling in crystal lights.

They take a number of steps to the first floor, stepping at last into what seems to be a waiting room, and it is some time before two young woman step out into the chamber; an older Frenchwoman who must be the proprietor is talking to them. “If there is any irritation, just soak them in camphorated water,” she is saying, and the other women nod. “Thank you,” they say, smiling, before leaving, their skirts trailing behind them down the stairs. At this, the woman turns to them.

“Welcome, sir,” she says, talking to Sebastian. “What are you here for?”

“A piercing,” Sebastian says, standing up from the low couch while Ciel hides himself behind his thick black coat, his face going red in embarrassment. He has changed his mind—he is going to die.

“You’ve come to the right place,” the woman answers. “I do piercings, anywhere you want them. But what’s this? Your son?” she asks, looking down at Ciel. “I can have my daughter wait with him in this room, if you need,” she says, for the first time looking slightly thrown. Ciel doesn’t get the feeling she sees children in these places very often.

“Oh, you misunderstand,” Sebastian says. “The piercing is for the child.”

“The child?” the woman says, blinking.

Ciel can see the moment she decides to throw them out as some kind of jokers.

“It… it was an accident,” Ciel says quietly. He looks at Sebastian for reassurance, and he nods slightly as Ciel tells the story they have decided on. “My friend and I wanted to pierce each other’s ears, you see,” he says, brushing back the hair over his ear. “But the other one, we didn’t manage it.”

The woman tuts in sudden sympathy. “Oh my,” she says. “Here, let me see. Do you mind?”

Ciel nods and lets her take a look at the ear. “Well,” she says at last. “If you want the other one done, that can be managed.” She stands up and talks to Sebastian, then.

“This was done at least a month ago…” she says.

“It took some time for him to reach a decision to come here,” Sebastian says. By _some time_ he really means only days, but the woman assumes based on their story, and makes a shrugging gesture with her hands.

At last they come into the salon proper, a tastefully decorated room with sofas set around and magazines on the tables. A young woman who must be the daughter is moving things around in the back, and she peers out when she sees them. The proprietor goes back and begins to speak with her quietly in French, telling her the whole story they’ve created, while the daughter nods. Then they come back out, with a needle, a bottle, and styptic wool. The woman tells Ciel how it is going to work while she puts that strong-smelling stuff on his ears, and he holds Sebastian’s hand tightly as he listens and nods.

“It should just hurt for a moment, yes?”

“I understand,” Ciel says. He squeezes his eyes shut as she does first the other ear—it is as quick a process as she has promised, and it hurts much less than he had anticipated, nothing like when _they_ did it; but then, nothing like this is how they had done it. His ear feels almost numb. The other one takes longer, being a harder job presumably, but soon that one is also done. The metal of the earrings she has put in is softly cool against his skin, and slightly heavy.

“Do you want to see how you look?” the woman asks, as her daughter packs everything up and takes it away. Ciel nods, and she gives him a hand mirror. For a moment, he hesitates, but as soon as he looks in the glass that restless energy subsides and the catch in his breath seems to loosen. The blue sparkles brilliantly as though they were taking the color from his eyes, simple but ornate, and he can no longer see that hateful scar. What he sees is, instead, mesmerizingly beautiful. He reaches one hand up to that ear, his fingers barely brushing the surface, as she explains to Sebastian how to care for the piercings as they heal. The ever-present scrapes that had littered his face when he first returned are gone now, and for the first time, that sense of not recognizing himself that he constantly feels doesn’t seem like such an eerie, painful thing. The boy in the mirror is not _that boy_ , the one who had died, and he is no longer in that cage. The boy that has survived has hard, cold eyes like gems, and he does not look afraid.

On the ride home, Ciel picks the stuffed animals out of their bags, turning them around and making remarks on what he likes and dislikes about each. He stops at the last one, that sad-faced rabbit. There is still something missing, and he doesn’t know what. He makes suggestions to Sebastian, but decides the next moment against each of them, until Sebastian starts to make humorous remarks of his own. None of his suggestions are any good, though, Ciel tells him tartly. Sebastian, whose mouth is curling up at the edge, doesn’t seem to be daunted by this.

Ciel hops out of the cab when they reach the steps of the townhouse, while Sebastian gathers the rest of the bags. He stumbles, almost falling as a boy darts past. He is confused, for a moment—the low, muttered “sorry,” the other boy gives him has a thick lower-class accent, but Ciel doesn’t miss the fine clothes he’s wearing or the familiar face.

“Is this yours?”

Ciel looks down from his staring appraisal to see that the boy is holding his rabbit, which has fallen onto the frozen ground. Still, it has flecks of dirt on its fur, and Ciel rubs it off, annoyed. He wants to tell the boy off, but the incongruity that has been nagging him catches more of his interest.

“William?” he says at last. “William Blackburn?” the boy looks almost as he remembers him from the few times they’ve met, but… there is something very palpably _off_.

The boy nods. That won’t do, Ciel thinks. He needs him to speak again; but the boy has obviously realized his slip-up and isn’t talking; he glances over his shoulder at the Blackburns’ house next door.

“I’m designing this rabbit,” Ciel says at last. “I’m going to make a store and sell them all around London.”

“You’re kidding me,” the boy says, with palpable skepticism, and there it is, clear as day. He pauses after he speaks, and they regard each other, both realizing that some secret has slipped loose and is sitting uncomfortably between them.

Ciel doesn’t remark on it. He looks back down at the stuffed animal and feels its fur under his hand. “It’s true,” he says. “But the rabbit’s missing something. I don’t know what,” he adds, frustrated. “I thought it might be the clothes, but I like those. It just has this air of… of…”

The boy, who had looked so close to bolting a moment ago, steps forward in interest. He looks closely at the rabbit, staring into its intelligent black eyes. “I know what you mean,” he says. He reaches out slightly, like he wants to touch it, but doesn’t dare.

“You can hold it,” Ciel says. The boy takes the rabbit, then, and holds it for a very long time. When he finally speaks, his voice is slow and thoughtful.

“It’s broken,” he says, “but you can’t see it. It wants someone to see it.”

Ciel looks at the rabbit as well, and is suddenly certain that the boy has caught on the truth. That is the look in the rabbit’s eyes that had seemed so pleading. That is why it was so forlorn.

“Then what should be done?” Ciel says. “I don’t think he would look good with one of his arms off.”

The boy laughs, the sound startled out of him, and he meets Ciel’s eyes with his own pale grey ones that are suddenly sparkling and lively. “Nah, you don’t needa do anything like that,” he says. “Maybe he’d look good with an eyepatch, though—like a pirate.”

Ciel looks back warmly. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll try that.”

The door of the Blackburns’ house is thrown open then, and Mary Blackburn looks frantically around before her gaze falls on her son.

“William!” she calls harshly. “Get in here, now! Have you been talking to that boy? What do you think you’re doing!?”

The boy seems to shrink under the sound of her voice, standing stiff and uncertain. His gaze falls to the ground, and he starts to hand the rabbit back to Ciel with an almost inaudible murmur.

“No, that’s all right,” Ciel says, on a sudden whim. “Keep it.”

The boy looks up. “Are you sure?” he says, and the disbelieving hope in his voice has such a familiar guarded tone.

“Yes,” Ciel says. “You helped me with the design, so you should be able to keep the one-of-a-kind trial version, don’t you think?”

The boy smiles at him again—a soft flash of a smile that disappears as soon as it appears, and he hugs the rabbit tighter to himself.

“William!” Mrs. Blackburn calls again, even sharper than before, and the boy dashes over to her just as Mr. Blackburn’s voice rings out from down the corridor.

“What are you making such a noise about, woman?”

Mrs. Blackburn takes the boy by the shoulders and pulls him inside, her eyes meeting Ciel’s for one moment. And Ciel sees something in those eyes that disturbs him, a certain kind of resigned fear that makes his skin crawl. She slams the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on piercings in Victorian times (with lots of primary sources & interesting stories), you can read this article:
> 
> https://www.bodyartforms.com/blog/victorian-nipple-rings-part-one/


	12. Chapter 12

The manor is burning. Everything is burning down around him, and he is screaming for mother and father, but they are not coming. They are… they are lying on the ground. Their heads are down, close together… like they had been holding each other when they… the blood is all over, and the house rings with emptiness… Sebastian is dead on the floor, the—the blood is everywhere, and there is no way out. He is alone, and he runs and runs but the corridors are endless, and then _they_ come.

"I'm going to see the ruins," Ciel says. "Sebastian will take me there. It shouldn't take long. I'll have to decide what to do with it eventually, it might as well be now."

"All right," his aunt answers, softly. "Write to me, if you end up staying longer, would you? Even if it's just a telegraph." He can see the worry and sadness that cloud her eyes; the smooth polished jet of her intricate necklace and earrings, the black of her dress, remind him of her own unspoken mourning.

"Of course," he says, and kisses her on the cheek when she leans down to hug him. There is a catch in her breathing, but she remains dry-eyed, and he is thankful.

It seems like shaking off a cloud, riding out of London early in the morning. In a literal way, that is true, for the air becomes clearer the further the train travels, past the brick and stone that makes the city and over the sleeping fields, until even the memory of it has vanished into the crisp country air. Ciel sits alone in the first class carriage, Sebastian taking third class with the luggage, and he leans forward toward the glass as he watches everything stream past below him.

His earrings are jet, now. It had taken some tricky work, and his aunt had bit off more than one muffled curse halfway when she realized that she was speaking in front of her beloved nephew. It had been him that asked her to change them, for as beautiful as the blue looked, it wasn't proper for mourning. The sapphire jewels went back into their case, waiting for when he would put off the black. These new ones were hers.

"I wasn't even sure I had small ones like these," she had confided to him. Most of her own jewelry was large and dangling.

She'd gotten into a right row about it with Sebastian when she'd first seen what they'd done, but Sebastian had been as unfailingly polite as he could be when he really wanted, and countered all of her shrieking with the medical information the woman who'd performed the procedure had informed him of. That calmed Aunt Anne down as nothing else could, and very soon they had progressed to discussions about germs and cleanliness, and then, of course, she had asked him what in the _world_ had inspired them to this, and Sebastian had only answered that it was the young master's decision, and if he wanted to tell her, he would.

Ciel had only told her that he thought it looked nice.

"Well, I suppose it does, at that," she had answered at last, and then really taken a good look at him for the first time before promptly squeezing him in a bone-crushing hug, while Ciel asked her weakly to please let go of him now.

"You look stunning, darling," she'd said, when she finally did, and her smile had been unfeigned.

They get off on the platform in town, and Sebastian asks around for some time before he finds someone with a cart willing to take them to the manor.

In the daylight, the ruins already look old and crumbling. Ciel picks his way inside, over stones lying like broken teeth, and charred wood crumbling to ash under his foot; Sebastian takes his arm after the first time he stumbles and doesn't let it go until they have gotten into the center of what is now a wide open place, blackened and mangled, like a wound. An accumulation of frost is crusted over the ground, and the crevasses of broken things make it all look eerie and unfamiliar. Ciel is surprised by how hard it is to match up his memories of the rooms with the ruins; he wanders in aimless circles, staring down at broken pieces, scraps of bright fabric, silver and gold that have survived the burning.

At last, Sebastian says that it is getting late, and he should not stay so long out in the cold. Even in his thick coat and hat and gloves, Ciel is shivering; he had not noticed until Sebastian mentioned it.

"We have one more place to go before we leave," Ciel says. They make their way out of the ruins and across the grounds that are so bare now, grass crunching under his heels, and there is the graveyard, bounded by its iron gate, and there, as he had known there would be, is a new row of graves, a line of four; a monument to the dead. His mother and his father's graves are in the center. On the one side, by his mother's grave, is that last one that doesn't fit: it regards him with his own name, a silent tongue of condemnation. _You should be here,_ it seems to say. _Everyone else is. Why have you, of them all, survived? Weak and pathetic as you are; it would have been better if you had died_.

He is trying. He is trying to make it right, somehow; not by his vengeance, which is for him alone, but by the fact that he is becoming the person his brother wanted to be. He can hear Sebastian's soft footstep behind him as he steps into the graveyard, and he knows that that he will never meet his family in heaven, not now.

At last, Sebastian says that the driver will certainly not stay any longer, even with the amount they've paid him, and so they walk back to the cart and jostle back into town. The sun is setting, and by the time they've gotten close to those lit places, he can see the stars.


	13. Chapter 13

The innkeeper, a Mrs Daunt, seems to recognize him, although Ciel cannot say that he recognizes her. When he and Sebastian walk up to inquire about a room, she passes by as her son hands them their keys, and says loudly, “Phantomhive?”

Ciel turns.

“Lor, is that one of the Phantomhive boys? Edward, what did he say his name was?”

“He said Phantomhive,” the younger Daunt answers.

She steps up to him. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she exclaims. “We thought you’d died for sure, all of you. Which one…?”

“Ciel,” he answers. It is almost becoming familiar, saying that. He feels less and less like he should be looking over his shoulder at his brother and winking at a good joke pulled off. A professional greeting is already out the window, but he is dismayed to find that the woman is hugging him. She smells like spices and cider, a nice smell, but her large breasts press against his face and he wheels his arms, shouting with some desperation, until she lets go of him. He pants, feeling like he’s run a marathon, and edges backward, eyeing her warily as if she might swoop forward again. She doesn’t, but by now there’s a crowd around them, men, and some of their wives with looks that seem dangerously like they might try to give him a hug too.

“He went to see the old manor,” their driver says.

“The old manor?” This news is taken up with interest, until suddenly, the whole crowd seems to have decided that he’s there to plan the rebuilding.

“Well, I was considering it,” Ciel admits, and before he can even begin any inquiries almost every man is volunteering for the job. Without having to lift a finger, Ciel has soon, apparently, hired almost twenty men to begin work as soon as the weather permits, on the ground near the old ruins.

“You won’t be able to stop them now, I fear,” Sebastian says, as they finally manage to ask for supper and are bustled off toward an empty table. “There is nothing so impossible as preventing men from engaging in work that they want to do—just as there is nothing so hard as forcing men to do work they hate. Just be thankful your problem is the former. They seem quite capable.”

“Perhaps,” Ciel grumbles, sitting down on the bench across from Sebastian, “but I will need someone to oversee the process, and I am not staying out here to do it.”

Sebastian smiles. “I am sure you will find someone reliable,” he says.

“Maybe,” Ciel replies.

Dinner is roast rolled ribs of beef with greens, potatoes, and a strong, sharp sauce made of horseradish. After that there is cheesecake, and Ciel stops talking entirely to enjoy the food. He is so focused on cutting the cake into small perfect bites with the edge of his fork that he doesn’t notice the man who is walking casually up behind Sebastian until he is leaning over the butler’s shoulder suddenly and Sebastian, without moving from his seat, has his sharp meat knife up against the man’s throat.

“Now now,” the man says, “there’s no need to make a scene.”

Sebastian grimaces, and doesn’t put down his knife. “What do you want, Claude,” he says.

“Do I have to have a reason to talk with an old friend?” Claude says insincerely. He looks over at Ciel, who sets his fork down to watch this play out. Claude has a smooth, flawless face that seems almost mask-like in its expressionlessness. His hair is slightly neater and perhaps a shade lighter than Sebastian’s, but it is just as long, and he looks enough like the demon that Ciel would have guessed—if he thought that they were both human—that they were cousins or even brothers. Unlike Sebastian, Claude has shining eyes, a pale honey-gold that seems unusually piercing.

“Who is this person, Sebastian,” Ciel asks.

Sebastian sighs. “A business associate, unfortunately.” He brings his knife back down to the table while Claude slips into the seat next to him and steals Sebastian’s plate. He uses the same fork to finish the rest of Sebastian’s dessert, and Ciel looks back and forth from him to a very uncomfortable looking Sebastian, suddenly feeling disinclined to finish his own cake. Claude licks the silverware with something close to obscenity and eyes Sebastian with a hint of challenge, while Sebastian glares back.

“Sebastian,” Claude says, at last. “Is that what you’re going by these days?”

“I am busy, as you can see,” Sebastian answers.

“Quite,” Claude replies. “We were all very surprised to find you playing house with the humans. I must say, I find this, personally, an interesting choice.” He looks over at Ciel again.

“You’ve had your own chances,” Sebastian says, muttering almost belligerently; but he doesn’t look Claude in the eye, instead glancing carefully down at the table in front of him.

“Yes, so I do,” Claude says.

The glitter of interest in Claude’s eyes sharpens, and he stares at Ciel with an expression both hungry and calculating, as though he is trying to take him apart piece by piece. It’s not the expression _they_ looked at him with, but there’s something similar in that dangerousness that makes Ciel feel like he wants to hide. That isn’t an option, though, and so he only stares back blankly, until at last Claude looks away, back to Sebastian.

“How you conduct your business is your own affair,” Claude says. “As long as you don’t neglect your ordinary work, of course.”

“Of course,” Sebastian says. “How very kind of you to think of me.”

Claude smiles thinly. “I figured you’d see it like that.”

Sebastian stands up. “Young master,” he says, “it’s getting late. We should retire.”

“All right,” Ciel answers, casting one last glance back at Claude, who is watching them as they walk away. He reaches across the table to Ciel’s unfinished cheesecake and begins to eat that as well, and Ciel looks away with a shudder.

They walk up the stairs to the second floor. Here, the low wooden beams are hidden by wallpaper. There are two long windows on one wall of the sitting area, covered with drapes. Their own rooms are off to the side, one door on each wall. The fireplace has been lit and makes the whole room glow, casting glancing shadows on the leaf-patterned carpet.

“What was that about?” Ciel asks, as Sebastian closes the door behind them.

“It seems that my absence has been noticed,” Sebastian replies. “I should have realized this would occur. There are still other deals to answer, and I regret to admit that I may have been neglecting those duties, in my duties to you.”

“Oh,” Ciel says. He sits in front of the fireplace, as close as he can get to the flames. “Does that mean you have to leave?” he asks. He has a terrible sinking feeling in his center. Something about all this has been _too good to be true_ , and he realizes he’s been waiting for a moment like this, when Sebastian will say it was all some sort of mistake. What kind of deal are they even involved with? His revenge still hasn’t been met. Maybe none of it is worth it for the demon. Not when he has coworkers suddenly showing up to make veiled threats in his direction.

“I may have to leave occasionally, yes,” Sebastian replies. “I shouldn’t expect the frequency to be any higher than once a week, during the busy part of the season, and usually at night. But it doesn’t take more than a few minutes to successfully transact a deal, so I hope you won’t find yourself too inconvenienced.”

“What?” Ciel says. For a moment, he only stares up at the demon, trying to process what he has said. “You mean… you’re not breaking ours?”

Sebastian looks affronted. “Of course not,” he replies. “I certainly wouldn’t make any agreements that conflicted with our covenant.”

“All right,” Ciel says quietly.

“Would you like me to call for some hot water?” Sebastian asks, after a silent moment.

“No, that’s fine,” Ciel says. They get ready for bed quietly after that. Ciel brushes his teeth, and the butler unpacks his small trunk and smoothes out his nightgown before helping Ciel into it. It’s a ritual that has already become familiar, and it is while Sebastian is doing up the last buttons when Ciel says, “I don’t like Claude.”

Sebastian hesitates. “I didn’t think you would,” he says, quietly.

“Does he make deals too?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says. “There are very few gates that open between Hell and Earth. The way out is almost impossible, so a crossroads demon will in most cases be the only ones you will see ordinarily walking the earth. It is the benefit of being invited.”

“I see,” Ciel says. It doesn’t sound like the stories his father has told him; of evil creatures roaming indiscriminately seeking to possess you, but he can almost see the places where it could match up, where the things his father and Sebastian didn’t say are bleeding into one another, painting a more complex, confused picture than he has imagined.

When the lights are out and the covers drawn up around him, he can hear Sebastian pacing around in the next room, and he wonders what the demon is thinking, and if he, too, is realizing that what they have stumbled into together is a stranger, harder thing, in the eyes of others, than it has seemed so far.


	14. Chapter 14

Again, he reaches out. He can see Ciel watching him, his blue eyes bright with the terror that stretches between them, a feeling that belongs equally to both. It is something that still connects them, even as he watches his brother get pushed down onto the hard, cold slab.

The knife rises in the air, and still, he can do nothing… _they_ can do nothing. For a moment longer, they are still connected, but then the knife comes down. A spurt of blood rises sickly into the air, an arc of bright crimson. It’s too much blood. There has never been that much blood before. And the dagger is sticking out of the middle of Ciel’s chest. That last, jerking breath, that scream—(he can’t tell whose it is)—and then he realizes that the only scream left is his own, because Ciel is no longer breathing at all. His head is lying back flat against the table, and his eyes—his eyes are glassy. The connection is snapped, he is spiraling backward, alone… all he can hear is his own heartbeat. Ciel is dead, and _he_ …

He is dead.

“Young master!”

He can hear a voice calling for him, but it seems to be coming from beyond the edges of the incoherent world, muffled under still water. He feels as though he is being sucked away, as though his interior is unraveling itself from his bones. The agony is physical, even beyond his terror, and he opens his eyes to a grey-faced monster above him. There is no mouth, only a hollow hole with something glowing and light streaking its way into its maw. Something blurs through the air above him, and the robed figure moves back with an unnatural hiss, a silver table knife buried in its shoulder. The world rushes back into him with a slam, all of his senses suddenly belonging to him again; Ciel can feel the sweat along his brow and hear his breath, unnaturally loud. Sebastian is jumping forward, hands out like claws, a grimace twisting his features and his eyes alight with red. He connects with the creature, and they slam into the far wall in a tangle of limbs. Ciel pushes the bedclothes away and half-falls to his feet. He wonders if he should run into the other room and close the door between them. But instead he stands still and watches, mesmerized by the violence. He still feels half-stuck in _that time_ , and instead of his butler, all he can see, for a moment, is that beast that killed them.

The creature shrieks, flinging an arm out and sending Sebastian flying into the other wall. Ciel ducks down onto the floor and watches the wood splinter behind the impact. Sebastian’s eyes narrow. Then he is up again, but the creature is already scrambling its way out of the open window. Sebastian stops by the sill, teeth bared in a snarl, and then, all at once, he turns back to Ciel in concern.

“Young master,” he says, “are you all right?”

“What _was_ that?” Ciel says. He stumbles forward, his eyes passing over the destruction the fight has caused. He stops by the window next to Sebastian, and looks out. All he can see is the empty sky. Near eye-level, on the sill itself, the wood is blackened and rotted away in the shape of something hand-like and clawed. Ciel can feel bile rise in his throat at the sight. The scent of decay and corruption seems to linger there.

“I believe it was a shtriga,” Sebastian says after a moment.

“A what?” Ciel snaps.

“It is a type of vampiric creature that preys on the souls of children, my lord. Without that, their victims soon sicken and die.”

“It took my…?” Ciel reaches unconsciously to his mouth, remembering that bright, shining thing that had hovered between them, and that vertiginous feeling.

“No. I interrupted its feeding, so it was not able to complete the process.”

Ciel clenches his fists into his nightgown. “Okay,” he says. He shivers, still seeing that _thing_ in his mind’s eye, and Sebastian reaches out and closes the window.

Ciel walks into the main room. Sebastian follows, shutting the door behind them, and as Ciel stands hesitantly in the center of the room, he kneels down to build up the fire.

“Will it attempt to come back?” Ciel asks.

“I will not let it, my lord,” Sebastian says.

“That’s not what I asked,” Ciel says sharply. “Do these kinds of creatures try to come back?”

“It may,” Sebastian says, after consideration. “Monsters are usually creatures of habit, and once it has scented its meal, it may not be satisfied to let it go. On the other hand, it may be cowardly, and flee.”

“Either way, we have to go after it,” Ciel says.

“Go after it?” Sebastian actually seems surprised.

“Well I can’t let… that thing… wander around, can I?” Ciel says. “What do you know about them?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Sebastian replies. “I’ve not met one in person before.” He frowns. “The silver knife seemed to harm it, but it did not stay wounded for long. And I detected no blood. I don’t think an ordinary weapon will be able to kill it.”

“Hm,” Ciel says. He steps forward, closer to the fire, and sits down beside Sebastian, who is still kneeling on the floor. Sebastian tries to move, but Ciel makes a small motion, and Sebastian stills. They stay there, a few inches of space between them. At last, Ciel says, “Was that the family silver I recognized?”

“Ah…” for a moment, Sebastian has the grace to look embarrassed. “I did take the liberty, I’m afraid… I wished to be prepared against any eventuality.”

“Hmph. Well, it came in handy, I suppose.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Do make sure to clean it thoroughly before you put it back in the set.”

“Of course.”

Ciel’s tiredness returns eventually—it’s only the middle of the night and in the absence of further action, his adrenaline ebbs away. After he yawns for the third time Sebastian says that he ought to go to bed. Ciel looks over at the doorway to that room uncomfortably, and Sebastian follows his gaze. Ciel will go back there and lie down in the same bed, but he does not think he will be able to sleep, thinking of the window pulled open and the rotted hand on the sill, the reminder of that withered creature.

“You might use the other room,” Sebastian says.

“I’m not afraid,” Ciel says.

“Of course not,” Sebastian says.

Ciel walks back into the room. He can feel his gaze being drawn to that window, the filmy lace that seems so unbearably illusory and fragile, over the darkness. Sebastian follows him in, and pulls the covers up over him as Ciel forces himself to look away.

“All the same,” Sebastian says, “I shall stay here for the time being, to be sure of your protection.”

He stands by the bed and stares down the window with a collected expression, and Ciel catches a glint of silver hidden under his gloved hand. Still, it is some hours before the weight of tiredness finally drags him down, and the echo of that wrinkled blind face and its tunneled mouth flicker uneasily through his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shtriga appears in SPN 1x18, "Something Wicked"


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes/warnings at end of chapter

MR =

ARRIVED SAFELY STOP MAY STAY LONGER STOP PLEASE WIRE INFORMATION ON SHTRIGA FROM FATHER’S LIBRARY STOP

C

* * *

 

MY DEAR NEPHEW =

I AM GLAD TO KNOW YOU ARRIVED SAFELY ALTHOUGH IT MAKES ONE WONDER WHY YOU ARE IN NEED OF SUCH THINGS STOP ALBANIAN IN ORIGIN STOP CAN TAKE HUMAN APPEARANCE STOP FEEDS OFF CHILDREN’S LIFE-FORCE STOP WHAT SPECIFICS ARE YOU LOOKING FOR QUERY

MR

* * *

MR =

HOW IS ONE KILLED

C

* * *

MY DEAR NEPHEW =

CONSECRATED IRON WHILE IT IS FEEDING STOP PLEASE DO NOT DO ANYTHING RASH IF YOU ARE IN DANGER COME BACK

ANNE

* * *

MR =

I AM IN NO DANGER STOP THANK YOU FOR THE INFORMATION IT IS VERY USEFUL STOP HOW IS TANAKA DOING QUERY

C

* * *

MY DEAR NEPHEW =

DO YOU REALLY THINK I WILL BE SO EASILY DISTRACTED STOP SOMEONE NEEDS TO LOOK AFTER YOU STOP TANAKA IS RECOVERING WELL AND SENDS HIS REGARDS STOP IS THERE ANYTHING FURTHER I CAN DO TO HELP QUERY

MR

* * *

It’s easy enough to figure out that the Shtriga hasn’t fled for good, although it hasn’t tried to attack Ciel again. During the next few days, Ciel talks with the villagers that come through the inn, listening to the gossip and asking questions. It’s a hard winter, and as such, it is no surprise that sickness has taken the lives of some children—but it is still notable how many children have been affected, and how suddenly these illnesses strike. Three families have had all their children affected, one after the other, all dying soon after, despite being visited by physicians. And only young children have been affected in such a way—if it was an ordinary illness, one would expect it to affect the elderly as well, but this is not the case.

It seems straightforward enough—all they have to do is find the Shtriga’s next victim before it decides to strike. But neither Ciel nor Sebastian are in possession of consecrated iron.

“Ah, Ciel,” Vicar Rathbone says, the evening they make their way to the door of his home beside the church.

“You’ve been expecting me, then?” Ciel asks. He steps through the door, Sebastian at his heels, and Rathbone shuts the door behind them; as he does, Ciel notices that it is edged with iron, as are the windowsills. At least they don’t have any wards, he thinks. It would be impossible to let Sebastian in, in that case, without the invitation spell, and it would be rather awkward to leave him standing outside—not to mention potentially suspicious.

“Of course. I’ve heard of the inquiries you’ve been making,” Rathbone says, and for a moment, he looks very grave. He sighs, and leads them through the hall into the study. “I didn’t expect you would follow your father’s footsteps so quickly.” He shows Ciel into a seat, and sits down himself.

Ciel looks away from Rathbone’s worried gaze. “I’m not. Not officially. It was a coincidence that Sebastian and I found ourselves here at this time, but I couldn’t leave the matter alone once I’d heard of it, could I?”

“So you’re sure that these deaths are the product of some kind of monster?” Rathbone says, then glances over at Sebastian. “I’m sorry—he knows, of course?”

“You may speak freely in front of him,” Ciel says, and Rathbone nods.

“To be honest, I suspected as much,” Rathbone says. “There was something uncanny about the recent deaths, it seemed clear that it was nothing like a simple sickness. I did what I could, but without knowing what it is, where it’s coming from…”

“As for that, I think I’ve figured it out. We suspect that it’s a Shtriga. Have you heard of such a thing?”

Rathbone nods distractedly. “I’ve heard stories, I think—these masquerade as humans, don’t they? One was defeated by putting a cross made of pig bone at the entrance of the church on Easter Sunday, and the parishoners were able to kill it as it stood trapped on the threshold.”

“How very public spirited,” Sebastian murmurs.

“I don’t know about that,” Ciel says, “but from what I know, they can be defeated with any weapon made of consecrated iron.”

“Oh, is that all?” the vicar says, with something like relief. “I’m sure I have something around, or I can bless a weapon if you’ve brought one with you.”

“Let me see what you have on hand,” Ciel says. He would rather avoid any active blessings going on with Sebastian in the room. Rathbone searches a few moments in the drawers before pulling out a short-handled knife. Ciel picks it up and turns it in his hand. The blade is heavy, and the balance could be better, but the important thing is the other properties.

“It’s just a knife, not a relic,” Rathbone says, “but it has been blessed.”

“It should do,” Ciel says. “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you,” Rathbone says. “You don’t know how it eases my mind to know that the duty is being carried on.”

Ciel’s mouth is dry, but he nods slightly, trying to take the weight of Rathbone’s trusting gaze. Even _Ciel_ didn’t know how to hunt monsters, and he had been the heir—a mere ten years was, in his predecessor’s opinion, too early to gain practical experience. Well. He certainly wasn’t going to let these murders continue just because he didn’t know what he was doing. He had a secret weapon after all—Sebastian. And no one else could take this responsibility.

Ciel’s resolve lasts until they have left Rathbone’s house behind—having declined the offer to have dinner there—and he and Sebastian are standing in the cold winter air. Ciel hands the knife to Sebastian, who takes it gingerly in his gloved hands before stowing it in the outer pocket of his greatcoat.

“Tomorrow,” Ciel murmurs, “I suppose we had better—Sebastian?” There is a sudden distracted look in his butler’s eyes. Sebastian’s gaze flicks down to him, and his mouth presses together tightly. “A summoning,” he says, quietly. “Nearby.”

“What, now?” Ciel says, put off. “Do you need to leave, then?”

Sebastian makes a low growling sound in his throat, sounding almost pained. “I don’t want to leave you while the shtriga is on the prowl.”

Ciel swallows. To be quite honest, he’s not entirely fond of that possibility either, but he tries to feign unconcern. “Well, there’s no help for it, I suppose, so you might as well.”

Sebastian shakes his head, and lets out a breath. Finally, he says, “young master, I understand this may be unconventional, but I would rather take you with me.”

“Can that be done?” Ciel asks, surprised.

“Of course,” Sebastian says. He holds out a hand. “We need merely teleport to the location of the summons.”

Ciel grabs hold of Sebastian’s hand, and then the world blinks out, dizzyingly, beneath him. For a moment there is nothing all around—a bewildering endlessness of nothing everywhere, except for the warm pressure of Sebastian’s hand around his own. Then sight and sound and the world swirl back in around them, and they are standing on a lonely stretch of road, the dirt cold and hard beneath their feet. A young woman of perhaps sixteen scrambles up, startled, from where she has been kneeling on the road, a trowel still in hand from where she has painstakingly dug a shallow hole in the packed earth and buried a small box of her offerings. Ciel looks around. He has the odd feeling that he has been here before, as distorted and strange as everything seems in the night. He meets the gaze of the summoner who stares, shocked, at the two of them, and his stomach drops into an endless pit. He recognizes her from their interviews in town—she lives on Phantomhive land, in this very same village. Worst of all, she obviously recognizes him.

“Lord Phantomhive?” she says, her voice high with fright. “What are you doing here? I didn’t mean—that is—are you… what happened?”

“Exactly what you meant to happen,” Sebastian says calmly. “You asked for a demon, didn’t you Anna? You wanted to make a deal. What sort of deal?” he tilts his head. “Ah. Your younger sister, is it? She died not two hours ago.”

“Yes…” The girl’s gaze has latched onto Sebastian. “I need to save her. She needs to live. I’ll do anything…”

Sebastian laughs, a low, chilling sound. “Of course you will. In return for your sister’s life, you will have ten more years, as is customary, before your soul will be pulled down into hell. Well then—step closer. We shall seal the deal.” The girl takes a few hesitant steps toward him, and then Sebastian has taken hold of her, pulling her closer before kissing her like he is trying to devour her. The girl gasps, and stumbles back as Sebastian lets go of her all at once, her eyes shining with tears. She sends an ashamed and guilty glance in Ciel’s direction, obviously pained that anyone else has been witness to this moment, and yet unable to keep from looking for a sympathetic eye. Ciel stares coldly back at her. He feels frozen—not only by the chill of the air around them, but by what has happened. His mouth tastes like metal, and his limbs are trembling. It is all he can do to stand, and not—run, or scream, or… he doesn’t even know what.

“Thank you,” the girl whispers at last, looking down, and she sketches a hasty half-curtsey before she turns and flees into the darkness.

Sebastian’s eyes are still red and glowing, and he watches her go with a look of cruel amusement. Then he sighs, and seems to put on his respectable veneer once more before gazing down at Ciel with human eyes.

“Shall we go now, young master?” he asks, reaching for Ciel, but Ciel slaps his hand away, trembling in sickness and rage.

“Don’t… don’t you dare touch me!” Ciel says, and stumbles back.

Sebastian watches him in utter confusion, and Ciel clenches his hands, focuses on trying to force down the bile that has risen in his throat. He spends a moment or two just trying to remember how to breathe, and then, finally, in a shaking voice, he says, “I’m all right.” The words come out dully. He feels more angry at himself than Sebastian, all at once. He doesn’t know where this reaction has come from, or why he is still surprised at anything he has witnessed. The demon is just doing his job.

 _Only a fool deludes himself that a chained and hungry beast, acting on its commands, might really care about his owner,_ he thinks. He doesn’t know why he feels so betrayed, so disgusted at himself, so uncomfortable; he can’t help seeing the frightened girl pressed up against Sebastian while he lays claim to her. The thought makes him feel once again sick, and he presses a hand to his mouth and screws his eyes shut.

 _I’m not here,_ he thinks. _Ciel wouldn’t let this get to him. Only Ciel is here, and he would never let this dog see his weakness._ The coldness that he tries to call for remains elusively out of reach for one more moment, and then it burns through him, turning all his limbs to ice; untouchable. He pushes the memory of the girl out of his mind. He calls up disdain for the degrading truth of his demon’s nature. He breathes out mist into the still winter air and watches it dissipate, all the weakness pushed out of his lungs with the fine cloud of fog.

“So,” Ciel says, at last. “Is it true that you can bring back the dead?”

“Only as the primary condition of a contract, my lord,” Sebastian says. “It is the power of the deal that makes such magic binding.”

“That makes sense,” Ciel says. He looks away, into the dark. When he next speaks, he doesn’t recognize the hollow sound of his own voice. “So I might have saved Ciel after all,” he says. “I didn’t realize. I thought that death was the only thing that could not be altered.” Isn’t that what father always said? he thinks.

“In a way it is,” Sebastian says. “There is no power that can stop Death itself. There may only be bargains—one life for another, one amount of magic, balanced in another sense. Death is the most powerful existence in the universe, the ultimate balancer of the scales. It cannot be tricked—but _anything_ , even Death, may be bargained with.”

“I see,” Ciel says. “That is useful information.”

“Young master, as interesting as this conversation is,” Sebastian says, “we ought to get inside, or you might catch a chill.”

“Of course.”

They teleport back to the village and make their way into their rented rooms. Sebastian stands watch by the window while Ciel attempts to sleep, and neither say a word about the small sobs that sound from the new-made bed, muffled into the pillow, before finally exhaustion pulls him away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: a crossroad deal happens; someone gets kissed who doesn't necessarily want to be; this impacts Ciel. All very generally/vaguely described.
> 
> 1) Madam Red and Ciel converse by telegram (the conversations in capital letters).
> 
> 2) "[a shtriga] was defeated by putting a cross made of pig bone at the entrance of the church on Easter Sunday, and the parishoners were able to kill it as it stood trapped on the threshold." - unlike the rest of the descriptions of the shtriga in this episode, this isn't from SPN lore, but is from other folklore (at least according to Wikipedia). In general folklore, shtriga really come off as more like vampires and a little less like dementors.
> 
> 3) (Sebastian takes the iron knife gingerly in his gloved hand) - in SPN lore, iron burns most demons, including crossroads demons, if it touches their bare skin.
> 
> 4) information on how crossroad deals are made is from SPN episode 2x08, "Crossroad Blues". One of the necessary items to bury is a photograph of the summoner, but I assume that's only one option (after all, what would people have done before there were photographs?) - perhaps Anna had a photo with herself in it, or a sketch done of her, or perhaps an object of personal significance could also be used.


End file.
